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COLLECTED   POEMS 


COLLECTED  POEMS 


BY 

AUSTIN   DOBSON 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES 

VOL.  I. 


Majores  majora  sonent 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,   MEAD   AND   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1895, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


SSntomsitg  lirtss: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


To  you  T  sing,  whom  towns  immure, 
And  bonds  of  toil  hold  fast  and  sure ;  — 
To  you  across  whose  aching  sight 
Come  woodlands  bathed  in  April  light, 
And  dreams  of  pastime  premature. 

And  you,  O  Sad,  who  still  endure 
Some  wound  that  only  Time  can  curet  — 
To  you,  in  watches  of  the  night,  — 
To  you  I  sing  ! 

But  most  to  you  with  eyelids  pure, 
Scarce  witting  yet  of  love  or  lure  ;  — 
To  you,  with  bird-like  glances  bright, 
Half-paused  to  speak,  half-poised  in  flight , 
O  English  Girl,  divine,  demure, 
To  YOU  I  sing! 


2021303 


"  le  ne  puts  tenir  registre  de  ma  vie  par  mes  off  ions  ; 
fortune  les  met  trap  bas:  ie  le  tiens  par  mes  fantasies." 

MONTAIGNE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS:  — 

A  Dead  Letter 3 

A  Gentleman  of  the  Old  School 10 

A  Gentlewoman  of  the  Old  School 15 

The  Ballad  of  Beau  Brocade 20 

Une  Marquise 31 

The  Story  of  Rosina 37 

PROVERBS  IN  PORCELAIN  :  — 

Prologue S1 

The  Ballad  a-la-Mode S3 

The  Metamorphosis 57 

The  Song  out  of  Season 61 

The  Cap  that  Fits 65 

The  Secrets  of  the  Heart 69 

"  Good-Night,  Babette !" 74 

Epilogue 78 

VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME:— 

The  Drama  of  the  Doctor's  Window 81 

An  Autumn  Idyll 9° 

A  Garden  Idyll 97 

vii 


CONTENTS. 

PAGB 
VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME  (continued). 

Tu  Quoque IO2 

A  Dialogue  from  Plato *°5 

The  Romaunt  of  the  Rose lo8 

Love  in  Winter "° 

Pot-Pourri II2 

Dorothy nS 

Avice ll8 

The  Love-Letter I22 

The  Misogynist I25 

A  Virtuoso I29 

Laissez  Faire *33 

To  Q.  H.  F. *35 

To  "Lydia  Languish" 138 

A  Gage  d'Amour *4* 

Cupid's  Alley *44 

The  Idyll  of  the  Carp 148 

The  Sundial i$4 

An  Unfinished  Song 158 

The  Child-Musician 161 

The  Cradle 162 

Before  Sedan 163 

The  Forgotten  Grave l^S 

My  Landlady 166 

Before  the  Curtain •  ...  170 

A  Nightingale  in  Kensington  Gardens 172 

MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES:  — 

A  Song  of  the  Four  Seasons *77 

The  Paradox  of  Time  .    . 179 

viii 


CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

MI?°ELLANEOUS  PIECES  (continued). 

To  a  Greek  Girl 181 

The  Death  of  Procris 183 

The  Prayer  of  the  Swine  to  Circe 186 

A  Case  of  Cameos 191 

The  Sick  Man  and  the  Birds 194 

A  Flower  Song  of  Angiola 197 

A  Song  of  Angiola  in  Heaven 200 

The  Dying  of  Tanneguy  du  Bois 204 

The  Mosque  of  the  Caliph 207 

In  the  Belfry 213 

Ars  Victrix 214 

ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS:  — 

Rose  Leaves  (  Triolets) 219 

"  Persicos  Odi " 222 

The  Wanderer  (Rondel) 223 

44  Vitas  Hinnuleo  "    , 224 

"  On  London  Stones  "  (Rondeau) 225 

"  Farewell,  Renown "            „ 226 

"  More  Poets  Yet "              „ 227 

"  With  Pipe  and  Flute  "      , 228 

To  a  June  Rose                   „ 229 

To  Daffodils                        „ 230 

On  the  Hurry  of  this  Time  (Rondeau) 231 

"  When  Burbadge  Played "        „            232 

A  Greeting                                    „            233 

After  Watteau                              „            .     »    .    .    .  234 

To  Ethel                                        „            235 

44  O  Fontf  Bandusiae "                  „           236 

ix 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 
ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  (continued). 

«  Extremum  Tanain  "  (Rondeau) 237 

"VixiPuellis"                     „ 238 

"  When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose  "  ( Villanelle)       ...  239 

On  a  Nankin  Plate                            24i 

For  a  Copy  of  Theocritus                  „          ....  243 

"  Tu  ne  Quaesieris "                          »          •    •    •     •  245 

The  Prodigals  (Ballade :  Irregular) 247 

On  a  Fan  (Ballade} 249 

A  Ballad  to  Queen  Elizabeth  (Ballade) 251 

A  Ballad  of  Heroes                        „ 253 

The  Ballad  of  the  Thrush              255 

The  Ballad  of  the  Barmecide        „ 257 

The  Ballad  of  Imitation                 „ 259 

The  Ballad  of  Prose  and  Rhyme     „ 261 

"ONavis"                                    , 263 

The  Dance  of  Death  (Chant  Royal) 265 


NOTES 271 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS 


A    DEAD    LETTER. 

"  A  coeur  blessl  —  f ombre  et  le  silence" 

H.  DE  BALZAC. 

I. 

T   DREW  it  from  its  china  tomb;  — 

It  came  out  feebly  scented 
With  some  thin  ghost  of  past  perfume 
That  dust  and  days  had  lent  it. 

An  old,  old  letter,  —  folded  stilll 

To  read  with  due  composure, 
I  sought  the  sun-lit  window-sill, 

Above  the  gray  enclosure, 

That  glimmering  in  the  sultry  haze, 

Faint-flowered,  dimly  shaded, 
Slumbered  like  Goldsmith's  Madam  Blaize, 

Bedizened  and  brocaded. 
3 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

A  queer  old  place  I  You  'd  surely  say 
Some  tea-board  garden-maker 

Had  planned  it  in  Dutch  William's  day 
To  please  some  florist  Quaker, 


So  trim  it  was.     The  yew-trees  still, 

With  pious  care  perverted, 
Grew  in  the  same  grim  shapes  ;  and  still 

The  lipless  dolphin  spurted ; 


Still  in  his  wonted  state  abode 
The  broken-nosed  Apollo ; 

And  still  the  cypress-arbour  showed 
The  same  umbrageous  hollow. 


Only, — as  fresh  young  Beauty  gleams 

From  coffee-coloured  laces, 
So  peeped  from  its  old-fashioned  dreams 

The  fresher  modern  traces  ; 


For  idle  mallet,  hoop,  and  ball 
Upon  the  lawn  were  lying  ; 

A  magazine,  a  tumbled  shawl, 

Round  which  the  swifts  were  flying  ; 
4 


A  DEAD  LETTER, 

And,  tossed  beside  the  Guelder  rose, 

A  heap  of  rainbow  knitting, 
Where,  blinking  in  her  pleased  repose 

A  Persian  cat  was  sitting. 

"  A  place  to  love  in,  —  live,  —  for  aye, 

If  we  too,  like  Tithonus, 
Could  find  some  God  to  stretch  the  gray, 

Scant  life  the  Fates  have  thrown  us ; 

"  But  now  by  steam  we  run  our  race, 
With  buttoned  heart  and  pocket ; 

Our  Love's  a  gilded,  surplus  grace,  — 
Just  like  an  empty  locket ! 

"  '  The  time  is  out  of  joint.'     Who  will, 
May  strive  to  make  it  better; 

For  me,  this  warm  old  window-sill, 
And  this  old  dusty  letter." 


II. 

"  Dear  John  (the  letter  ran),  it  can't,  can't  be, 
For  Father  's  gone  to  Charley  Fair  with  Sam, 

And  Mother's  storing  Apples, — Prue  and  Me 
Up  to  our  Elbows  making  Damson  Jam  : 

But  we  shall  meet  before  a  Week  is  gone,  — 

k  "Tis  a  long  Lane  that  has  no  Turning,'  John! 
5 


OLD-U/ORLD  IDYLLS. 

"  Only  till  Sunday  next,  and  then  you  '11  wait 
Behind  the  White-Thorn,  by  the  broken  Stile  — 

We  can  go  round  and  catch  them  at  the  Gate, 
All  to  Ourselves,  for  nearly  one  long  Mile  ; 

Dear  Prue  won't  look,  and  Father  he  '11  go  on, 

And  Sam's  two  Eyes  are  all  for  Cissy,  John  ! 

"  John,  she's  so  smart, — with  every  Ribbon  new, 
Flame-coloured  Sack,  and  Crimson  Padcsoy  : 

As  proud  as  proud  ;  and  has  the  Vapours  too. 
Just  like  My  Lady;  —  calls  poor  Sam  a  Boy, 

And  vows  no  Sweet-heart 's  worth  the  Thinking-on 

Till  he's  past  Thirty  ...   I  know  better,  John! 

"  Mv  Dear,  I  don't  think  that  I  thought  of  much 
Before  we  knew  each  other,  I  and  you  ; 

And  now,  why,  John,  your  least,  least  Finger- 
touch, 
Gives  me  enough  to  think  a  Summer  through. 

See.  for  I  send  you  Something  1    There,  'tis  gone  ! 

Look  in  this  corner,  —  mind  you  find  it,  John  ! " 


III. 

This  was  the  matter  of  the  note,  — 

A  long-forgot  deposit, 
Dropped  in  an  Indian  dragon's  throat, 

Deep  in  a  fragrant  closet, 


A  DEAD  LETTER. 


Piled  with  a  dapper  Dresden  world, — 
Beaux,  beauties,  prayers,  and  poses,  — 

Bonzes  with  squat  legs  undercurled, 
And  great  jars  filled  with  roses. 


Ah,  heart  that  wrote  I    Ah,  lips  that  kissed  ! 

You  had  no  thought  or  presage 
Into  what  keeping  you  dismissed 

Your  simple  old-world  message  ! 


A  reverent  one.     Though  we  to-day 
Distrust  beliefs  and  powers, 

The  artless,  ageless  things  you  say 
Are  fresh  as  May's  own  flowers, 


Starring  some  pure  primeval  spring, 
Ere  Gold  had  grown  despotic,  — 

Ere  Life  was  yet  a  selfish  thing, 
Or  Love  a  mere  exotic  ! 


I  need  not  search  too  much  to  find 
Whose  lot  it  was  to  send  it, 

That  feel  upon  me  yet  the  kind, 
Soft  hand  of  her  \vho  penned  it ; 
7 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 


And  see,  through  two  score  years  of  smoke, 

In  by-gone,  quaint  apparel, 
Shine  from  yon  time-black  Norway  oak 

The  face  of  Patience  Caryl,  — 


The  pale,  smooth  forehead,  silver-tressed 
The  gray  gown,  primly  flowered  ; 

The  spotless,  stately  coif  whose  crest 
Like  Hector's  horse-plume  towered  ; 


And  still  the  sweet  half-solemn  look 
Where  some  past  thought  was  clinging, 

As  when  one  shuts  a  serious  book 
To  hear  the  thrushes  singing. 


I  kneel  to  you  !  Of  those  you  were, 
Whose  kind  old  hearts  grow  mellow, 

Whose  fair  old  faces  grow  more  fair 
As  Point  and  Flanders  yellow  ; 


Whom  some  old  store  of  garnered  grief, 
Their  placid  temples  shading, 

Crowns  like  a  wreath  of  autumn  leaf 
With  tender  tints  of  fading. 


A  DEAD  LETTER. 

Peace  to  your  soul  I    You  died  unwed  — 

Despite  this  loving  letter. 
And  what  of  John  ?    The  less  that 's  said 

Of  John,  I  think,  the  better. 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 


A  GENTLEMAN    OF  THE  OLD 
SCHOOL. 

TT  E  lived  in  that  past  Georgian  day, 
^     When  men  were  less  inclined  to  say 
That  "  Time  is  Gold,"  and  overlay 

With  toil  their  pleasure  ; 
He  held  some  land,  and  dwelt  thereon,  — 
Where,  I  forget,  —  the  house  is  gone  ; 
His  Christian  name,  I  think,  was  John,  — 

His  surname,  Leisure. 

Reynolds  has  painted  him,  — a  face 
Filled  with  a  fine,  old-fashioned  grace, 
Fresh-coloured,  frank,  with  ne'er  a  trace 

Of  trouble  shaded ; 
The  eyes  are  blue,  the  hair  is  drest 
In  plainest  way,  —  one  hand  is  prest 
Deep  in  a  flapped  canary  vest, 

With  buds  brocaded. 

He  wears  a  brown  old  Brunswick  coat, 
With  silver  buttons,  —  round  his  throat, 
A  soft  cravat  ;  —  in  all  you  note 

An  elder  fashion,  — 
10 


A   GENTLEMAN  OF   THE   OLD  SCHOOL. 

A  strangeness,  which,  to  us  who  shine 
In  shapely  hats,  —  whose  coats  combine 
All  harmonies  of  hue  and  line, 

Inspires  compassion. 

He  lived  so  long  ago,  you  see  I 
Men  were  untravelled  then,  but  we, 
Like  Ariel,  post  o'er  land  and  sea 

With  careless  parting ; 
He  found  it  quite  enough  for  him 
To  smoke  his  pipe  in  "  garden  trim," 
And  watch,  about  the  fish  tank's  brim, 

The  swallows  darting. 

He  liked  the  well-wheel's  creaking  tongue, 
He  liked  the  thrush  that  stopped  and  sung, 
He  liked  the  drone  of  flies  among 

His  netted  peaches ; 
He  liked  to  watch  the  sunlight  fall 
Athwart  his  ivied  orchard  wall ; 
Or  pause  to  catch  the  cuckoo's  call 

Beyond  the  beeches. 

His  were  the  times  of  Paint  and  Patch, 
And  yet  no  Ramelagh  could  match 
The  sober  doves  that  round  his  thatch 
Spread  tails  and  sidled  ; 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

He  liked  their  ruffling,  puffed  content,  — 
For  him  their  drowsy  wheelings  meant 
More  than  a  Mall  of  Beaux  that  bent, 
Or  Belles  that  bridled. 

Not  that,  in  truth,  when  life  began 
He  shunned  the  flutter  of  the  fan  ; 
He  too  had  maybe  "  pinked  his  man" 

In  Beauty's  quarrel ; 
But  now  his  '•  fervent  youth  "  had  flown 
Where  lost  things  go  ;  and  he  was  grown 
As  staid  and  slow-paced  as  his  own 

Old  hunter,  Sorrel. 

Yet  still  he  loved  the  chase,  and  held 
That  no  composer's  score  excelled 
The  merry  horn,  when  Sweetlip  swelled 

Its  jovial  riot ; 

But  most  his  measured  words  of  praise 
Caressed  the  angler's  easy  ways,  — 
His  idly  meditative  days,  — 

His  rustic  diet. 

Not  that  his  "  meditating"  rose 
Beyond  a  sunny  summer  doze  ; 
He  never  troubled  his  repose 

With  fruitless  prying; 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL. 

But  held,  as  law  for  high  and  low, 
What  God  withholds  no  man  can  know, 
And  smiled  away  inquiry  so, 

Without  replying. 

We  read  —  alas,  how  much  we  read  !  — 
The  jumbled  strifes  of  creed  and  creed 
With  endless  controversies  feed 

Our  groaning  tables  ; 

His  books  —  and  they  sufficed  him  —  were 
Cotton's  "  Montaigne,"  "The  Grave  "  of  Blair, 
A  "  Walton  "  —  much  the  worse  for  wear, 
Fables." 


One  more,  —  "  The  Bible."     Not  that  he 
Had  searched  its  page  as  deep  as  we  ; 
No  sophistries  could  make  him  see 

Its  slender  credit  ; 
It  may  be  that  he  could  not  count 
The  sires  and  sons  to  Jesse's  fount,  — 
He  liked  the  "  Sermon  on  the  Mount,"  — 

And  more,  he  read  it. 

Once  he  had  loved,  but  failed  to  wed, 
A  red-cheeked  lass  who  long  was  dead  ; 
His  ways  were  far  too  slow,  he  said, 
To  quite  forget  her  ; 
-3 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

And  still  when  time  had  turned  him  gray, 
The  earliest  hawthorn  buds  in  May 
Would  find  his  lingering  feet  astray, 
Where  first  he  met  her. 

"  In  Ccelo  Quies"  heads  the  stone 

On  Leisure's  grave,  —  now  little  known, 

A  tangle  of  wild-rose  has  grown 

So  thick  across  it ; 
The  "  Benefactions11  still  declare 
He  left  the  clerk  an  elbow-chair, 
And  "  12  Pence  Yearly  to  Prepare 

A  Christmas  Posset." 

Lie  softly,  Leisure  !     Doubtless  you, 
With  too  serene  a  conscience  drew 
Your  easy  breath,  and  slumbered  through 

The  gravest  issue ; 
But  we,  to  whom  our  age  allows 
Scarce  space  to  wipe  our  weary  brows, 
Look  down  upon  your  narrow  house, 

Old  friend,  and  miss  you  I 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL, 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  OF  THE  OLD 
SCHOOL. 

O  HE  lived  in  Georgian  era  too. 

Most  women  then,  if  bards  be  true, 
Succumbed  to  Routs  and  Cards,  or  grew 

Devout  and  acid. 

But  hers  was  neither  fate.     She  came 
Of  good  west-country  folk,  whose  fame 
Has  faded  now.     For  us  her  name 

Is  "  Madam  Placid." 

Patience  or  Prudence,  —  what  you  will, 
Some  prefix  faintly  fragrant  still 
As  those  old  musky  scents  that  fill 

Our  grandams'  pillows  ; 
And  for  her  youthful  portrait  take 
Some  long-waist  child  of  Hudson's  make, 
Stiffly  at  ease  beside  a  lake 

With  swans  and  willows. 


I  keep  her  later  semblance  placed 
Beside  my  desk,  —  'tis  lawned  and  laced, 
In  shadowy  sanguine  stipple  traced 
By  Bartolozzi  ; 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

A  placid  face,  in  which  surprise 
Is  seldom  seen,  but  yet  there  lies 
Some  vestige  of  the  laughing  eyes 
Of  arch  Piozzi. 

For  her  e'en  Time  grew  debonair. 
He,  finding  cheeks  unclaimed  of  care, 
With  late-delayed  faint  roses  there, 

And  lingering  dimples, 
Had  spared  to  touch  the  fair  old  face, 
And  only  kissed  with  Vauxhall  grace 
The  soft  white  hand  that  stroked  her  lace, 

Or  smoothed  her  wimples. 

So  left  her  beautiful.     Her  age 
Was  comely  as  her  youth  was  sage, 
And  yet  she  once  had  been  the  rage  ;  — 

It  hath  been  hinted, 
Indeed,  affirmed  by  one  or  two, 
Some  spark  at  Bath  (as  sparks  will  do) 
Inscribed  a  song  to  "  Lovely  Prue," 

Which  Urban  printed. 

I  know  she  thought ;  I  know  she  felt ; 
Perchance  could  sum,  I  doubt  she  spelt ; 
She  knew  as  little  of  the  Celt 
As  of  the  Saxon  ; 
16 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL 

I  know  she  played  and  sang,  for  yet 
We  keep  the  tumble-down  spinet 
To  which  she  quavered  ballads  set 
By  Arne  or  Jackson. 

Her  tastes  were  not  refined  as  ours  ; 
She  liked  plain  food  and  homely  flowers, 
Refused  to  paint,  kept  early  hours, 

Went  clad  demurely ; 
Her  art  was  sampler-work  design, 
Fireworks  for  her  were  "  vastly  fine," 
Her  luxury  was  elder-wine,  — 

She  loved  that  "  purely." 

She  was  renowned,  traditions  say, 

For  June  conserves,  for  curds  and  whey, 

For  finest  tea  (she  called  it  "  tay  "), 

And  ratafia  ; 

She  knew,  for  sprains,  what  bands  to  choose. 
Could  tell  the  sovereign  wash  to  use 
For  freckles,  and  was  learned  in  brews 

As  erst  Medea. 

Yet  studied  little.     She  would  read, 
On  Sundays,  "  Pearson  on  the  Creed," 
Though,  as  I  think,  she  could  not  head 
His  text  profoundly ; 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

Seeing  she  chose  for  her  retreat 
The  warm  west-looking  window-seat, 
Where,  if  you  chanced  to  raise  your  feet, 
You  slumbered  soundly. 

This,  'twixt  ourselves.    The  dear  old  dame, 
In  truth,  was  not  so  much  to  blame  ; 
The  excellent  divine  I  name 

Is  scarcely  stirring  ; 
Her  plain-song  piety  preferred 
Pure  life  to  precept.     If  she  erred, 
She  knew  her  faults.     Her  softest  word 

Was  for  the  erring. 

If  she  had  loved,  or  if  she  kept 
Some  ancient  memory  green,  or  wept 
Over  the  shoulder-knot  that  slept 

Within  her  cuff-box, 
I  know  not.     Only  this  I  know, 
At  sixty-five  she  'd  still  her  beau, 
A  lean  French  exile,  lame  and  slow, 

With  monstrous  snuff-box. 

Younger  than  she,  well-born  and  bred. 
She  'd  found  him  in  St.  Giles',  half  dead 
Of  teaching  French  for  nightly  bed 
And  daily  dinners  ; 
18 


GENTLEWOMAN  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL. 

Starving,  in  fact,  'twixt  want  and  pride  ; 
And  so,  henceforth,  you  always  spied 
His  rusty  "  pigeon-wings  "  beside 
Her  Mechlin  pinners. 

He  worshipped  her,  you  may  suppose. 
She  gained  him  pupils,  gave  him  clothes, 
Delighted  in  his  dry  bon-mots 

And  cackling  laughter  ; 
And  when,  at  last,  the  long  duet 
Of  conversation  and  picquet 
Ceased  with  her  death,  of  sheer  regret 

He  died  soon  after. 

Dear  Madam  Placid  !  Others  knew 
Your  worth  as  well  as  he,  and  threw 
Their  flowers  upon  your  coffin  too, 

I  take  for  granted. 

Their  loves  are  lost ;  but  still  we  see 
Your  kind  and  gracious  memory 
Bloom  yearly  with  the  almond  tree 

The  Frenchman  planted. 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 


THE  BALLAD  OF   "BEAU   BROCADE/ 

"  Hark  !  I  hear  the  sound  of  coaches  !  " 

BEGGAR'S  OPERA. 

CEVENTEEN  hundred  and  thirty-nine:  — 
That  was  the  date  of  this  tale  of  mine. 

First  great  GEORGE  was  buried  and  gone  ; 
GEORGE  the  Second  was  plodding  on. 

LONDON  then,  as  the  "  Guides''  aver, 
Shared  its  glories  with  Westminster ; 

And  people  of  rank,  to  correct  their  "  tone," 
Went  out  of  town  to  Marybone. 

Those  were  the  days  of  the  War  with  Spain, 
PORTO-BELLO  would  soon  be  ta'en  ; 

WHITEFIELD  preached  to  the  colliers  grim, 
Bishops  in  lawn  sleeves  preached  at  him  ; 

WALPOLE  talked  of  "  a  man  and  his  price  "  ; 
Nobody's  virtue  was  over-nice  :  — 

Those,  in  fine,  were  the  brave  days  when 
Coaches  were  stopped  by  -  .  -  Highwaymen ! 


THE  BALLAD   OF  "BEAU  BROCADE." 

And  of  all  the  knights  of  the  gentle  trade 
Nobody  bolder  than  "  BEAU  BROCADE." 

This  they  knew  on  the  whole  way  down; 
Best,  —  maybe,  —  at  the  "  Oak  and  Crown." 

(For  timorous  cits  on  their  pilgrimage 

Would  ' '  club  "  for  a  "  Guard  "  to  ride  the  stage ; 

And  the  Guard  that  rode  on  more  than  one 
Was  the  Host  of  this  hostel's  sister's  son.) 

Open  we  here  on  a  March-day  fine, 
Under  the  oak  with  the  hanging  sign. 

There  was  Barber  DICK  with  his  basin  by ; 
Cobbler  JOE  with  the  patch  on  his  eye  ; 

Portly  product  of  Beef  and  Beer, 
JOHN  the  host,  he  was  standing  near. 

Straining  and  creaking,  with  wheels  awry, 
Lumbering  came  the  "Plymouth  Fly"  ;  — 

Lumbering  up  from  Bagshot  Heath, 
Guard  in  the  basket  armed  to  the  teeth  ; 

Passengers  heavily  armed  inside  ; 

Not  the  less  surely  the  coach  had  been  tried  1 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

Tried  !  —  but  a  couple  of  miles  away, 

By  a  well-dressed  man  1  —  in  the  open  day  1 

Tried  successfully,  never  a  doubt,  — 
Pockets  of  passengers  all  turned  out  1 

Cloak-bags  rifled,  and  cushions  ripped, — 
Even  an  Ensign's  wallet  stripped  1 

Even  a  Methodist  hosier's  wife 

Offered  the  choice  of  her  Money  or  Life  1 

Highwayman's  manners  no  less  polite, 

Hoped  that  their  coppers  (returned)  were  right  ;•— 

Sorry  to  find  the  company  poor, 

Hoped  next  time  they  'd  travel  with  more  ;  — 

Plucked  them  all  at  his  ease,  in  short :  — 
Such  was  the  "Plymouth  Fly's"  report. 

Sympathy  !  horror !  and  wonderment  I 

"  Catch  the  Villain  1  "    (But  Nobody  went.) 

Hosier's  wife  led  into  the  Bar ; 

(That 's  where  the  best  strong  waters  are  !) 

Followed  the  tale  of  the  hundred-and-one 
Things  that  Somebody  ought  to  have  done. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  "BEAU  BROCADE." 

Ensign  (of  BRAGG'S)  made  a  terrible  clangour  : 
But  for  the  Ladies  had  drawn  his  hanger  1 

Robber,  of  course,  was  "  BEAU  BROCADE"; 
Out-spoke  DOLLY  the  Chambermaid. 

Devonshire  DOLLY,  plump  and  red, 
Spoke  from  the  gallery  overhead  ;  — 

Spoke  it  out  boldly,  staring  hard  :  — 
•'  Why    did  n't    you    shoot    then,    GEORGE    the 
Guard  ? " 

Spoke  it  out  bolder,  seeing  him  mute  :  — 

"  GEORGE  the  Guard,  why  did  n't  you  shoot  ? " 

Portly  JOHN  grew  pale  and  red, 
(JOHN  was  afraid  of  her,  people  said  ;) 

Gasped  that  "  DOLLY  was  surely  cracked," 
(JOHN  was  afraid  of  her  —  that 's  a  fact !) 

GEORGE  the  Guard  grew  red  and  pale, 
Slowly  finished  his  quart  of  ale  :  — 

"  Shoot  ?      Why  —  Rabbit    him  !  —  did  n't    he 

shoot  ? " 

Muttered  —  "  The  Baggage  was  far  too  'cute  1  " 
23 


OLD- IVOR LD  IDYLLS. 

"  Shoot  ?    Why  he  'd  flashed  the  pan  in  his  eye  I  " 
Muttered  —  "  She  'd  pay  for  it  by  and  by  1 " 
Further  than  this  made  no  reply. 

Nor  could  a  further  reply  be  made, 

For  GEORGE  was  in  league  with  "  BEAU  BROCADE  " ! 

And  JOHN  the  Host,  in  his  wakefullest  state, 
Was  not — on  the  whole  —  immaculate. 

But  nobody's  virtue  was  over-nice 

When  WALPOLE  talked  of  "  a  man  and  his  price  "  ; 

And  wherever  Purity  found  abode, 
'Twas  certainly  not  on  a  posting  road. 

II. 

"  Forty"  followed  to  "  Thirty-nine." 
Glorious  days  of  the  Hanover  line  1 

Princes  were  born,  and  drums  were  banged  ; 
Now  and  then  batches  of  Highwaymen  hanged. 

"  Glorious  news  1  "  —  from  the  Spanish  Main; 
PORTO-BELLO  at  last  was  ta'en. 

"  Glorious  news  !  "  —  for  the  liquor  trade; 
Nobody  dreamed  of  "  BEAU  BROCADE." 
24 


THE  BALLAD  OF  "BEAU  BROCADE." 

People  were  thinking  of  Spanish  Crowns; 
Money  was  coming  from  seaport  towns  I 

Nobody  dreamed  of  "  BEAU  BROCADE," 
(Only  DOLLY  the  Chambermaid  1 ) 

Blessings  on  VERNON  I     Fill  up  the  cans  ; 
Money  was  coming  in  "Flys"  and  "Vans." 

Possibly,  JOHN  the  Host  had  heard  ; 
Also,  certainly,  GEORGE  the  Guard. 

And  DOLLY  had  possibly  tidings,  too, 
That  made  lier  rise  from  her  bed  anew, 

Plump  as  ever,  but  stern  of  eye, 

With  a  fixed  intention  to  warn  the  "Fly." 

Lingering  only  at  JOHN  his  door, 
Just  to  make  sure  of  a  jerky  snore  ; 

Saddling  the  gray  mare,  Dumpling  Star; 
Fetching  the  pistol  out  of  the  bar  ; 

(The  old  horse-pistol  that,  they  say, 
Came  from  the  battle  of  Malplaquet;) 

Loading  with  powder  that  maids  would  use, 
Even  in  "  Forty,"  to  clear  the  flues ; 

2S 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

And  a  couple  of  silver  buttons,  the  Squire 
Gave  her,  away  in  Devonshire. 

These  she  wadded  —  for  want  of  better  — 
With  the   B — SH — p   of    L — ND — N'S   "  Pastoral 
Letter  " ; 

Looked  to  the  flint,  and  hung  the  whole, 
Ready  to  use,  at  her  pocket-hole. 

Thus  equipped  and  accoutred,  DOLLY 
Clattered  away  to  "Exciseman's  Folly"  ;— 

Such  was  the  name  of  a  ruined  abode, 
Just  on  the  edge  of  the  London  road. 

Thence  she  thought  she  might  safely  try, 
As  soon  as  she  saw  it,  to  warn  the  "Fly" 

But,  as  chance  fell  out,  her  rein  she  drew, 
As  the  BEAU  came  cantering  into  the  view. 

By  the  light  of  the  moon  she  could  see  him  drest 
In  his  famous  gold-sprigged  tambour  vest ; 

And  under  his  silver-gray  surtout, 
The  laced,  historical  coat  of  blue, 

That  he  wore  when  he  went  to  London-Spcuv, 
And  robbed  Sir  MUNGO  MUCKLETHRAW. 
26 


THE  BALLAD   OF  "BEAU  BROCADE." 

Out-spoke  DOLLY  the  Chambermaid, 

(Trembling  a  little,  but  not  afraid,) 

"  Stand  and  Deliver,  O  ;  BEAU  BROCADE  '  1 " 

But  the  BEAU  rode  nearer,  and  would  not  speak, 
For  he  saw  by  the  moonlight  a  rosy  cheek ; 

And  a  spavined  mare  with  a  rusty  hide  ; 
And  a  girl  with  her  hand  at  her  pocket-side. 

So  never  a  word  he  spoke  as  yet, 

For  he  thought  'twas  a  freak  of  MEG  or  BET  ;  — ' 

A  freak  of  the  "Rose"  or  the  "Rummer'"  set. 

Out-spoke  DOLLY  the  Chambermaid, 

(Tremulous  now,  and  sore  afraid,) 

"  Stand  and  Deliver,  O  '  BEAU  BROCADE'  1 "  — 

Firing  then,  out  of  sheer  alarm, 
Hit  the  BEAU  in  the  bridle-arm. 

Button  the  first  went  none  knows  where, 
But  it  carried  away  his  solitaire; 

Button  the  second  a  circuit  made, 
Glanced  in  under  the  shoulder  blade  ;  — 
Down  from  the  saddle  fell  "  BEAU  BROCADE  "  I 

Down  from  the  saddle  and  never  stirred  !  — 
DOLLY  grew  white  as  a  Windsor  curd. 
27 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

Slipped  not  less  from  the  mare,  and  bound 
Strips  of  her  kirtle  about  his  wound. 

Then,  lest  his  Worship  should  rise  and  flee, 
Fettered  his  ankles  —  tenderly. 

Jumped  on  his  chestnut,  BET  the  fleet 
(Called  after  BET  of  Portugal  Street) ; 

Came  like  the  wind  to  the  old  Inn-door  ;  — 
Roused  fat  JOHN  from  a  three-fold  snore  ;  — 

Vowed  she  'd  'peac^  if  ne  misbehaved  .  .  . 
Briefly,  the  "Plymouth  Fly"  was  saved  1 

Staines  and  Windsor  were  all  on  fire  :  — 
DOLLY  was  wed  to  a  Yorkshire  squire  ; 
Went  to  Town  at  the  K — G'S  desire  1 

But  whether  His  M — j — STY  saw  her  or  not, 
HOGARTH  jotted  her  down  on  the  spot ; 

And  something  of  DOLLY  one  still  may  trace 
In  the  fresh  contours  of  his  "Milkmaid's"  face. 

GEORGE  the  Guard  fled  over  the  sea  : 
JOHN  had  a  fit  —  of  perplexity  ; 

Turned  King's  evidence,  sad  to  state  ;  — 
But  JOHN  was  never  immaculate. 
28 


THE  BALLAD   OF  "  BEAU  BROCADE." 

As  for  the  BEAU,  he  was  duly  tried. 

When  his  wound  was  healed,  at  Whitsuntide  ; 

Served  —  for  a  day  —  as  the  last  of  "  sights," 
To  the  world  of  St.  James  s-Slreel  and  "  While's  ", 

Went  on  his  way  to  TYBURN  TREE, 
With  a  pomp  befitting  his  high  degree. 

Every  privilege  rank  confers  :  — 
Bouquet  of  pinks  at  St.  Sepulchre's; 

Flagon  of  ale  at  Holborn  Bar  ; 

Friends  (in  mourning)  to  follow  his  Car  — 

("  t"  is  omitted  where  HEROES  are  !  ) 

Every  one  knows  the  speech  he  made ; 
Swore  that  he  "  rather  admired  the  Jade !  "  — 

Waved  to  the  crowd  with  his  gold-laced  hat : 
Talked  to  the  Chaplain  after  that ; 

Turned  to  the  Topsman  undismayed  .  .  . 
This  was  the  finish  of  "  BEAU  BROCADE  "  1 


And  this  is  the  Ballad  that  seemed  to  hide 
In  the  leaves  of  a  dusty  "  LONDONER'S  GUIDE  "  ; 
29 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

"  Humbly  Inscribed  (with  curls  and  tails) 
By  the  Author  to  FREDERICK,  Prince  of  WALES 

"  Published  by  FRANCIS  and  OLIVER  PINE  ; 
Lud gate-Hill,  at  the  Blackmoor  Sign. 
Sepenteen-Hundred-and-Thirty-Nine." 


UNE  MARQUISE. 
UNE    MARQUISE.     ^  )^x 

A  RHYMED  MONOLOGUE  IN  THE  LOUVRE. 


'•  Belle  Marquise,  vos  beaux  yeux  me  font  mourir  <T  amour" 

MOLIERE. 


A  S  you  sit  there  at  your  ease, 
**•  O  Marquise  I 

And  the  men  flock  round  your  knees 
Thick  as  bees. 

Mute  at  every  word  you  utter, 
Servants  to  your  least  frill  flutter, 

4<  Belle  Marquise  ! "  — 
As  you  sit  there  growing  prouder, 

And  your  ringed  hands  glance  and  go, 
And  your  fan's  frou-frou  sounds  louder, 

And  your  "  beaux  yeux  "  flash  and  glow  ;  — 
Ah,  you  used  them  on  the  Painter, 

As  you  know, 

For  the  Sieur  Larose  spoke  fainter, 
Bowing  low, 

Thanked  Madame  and  Heaven  for  Mercy 
That  each  sitter  was  not  Circe, 
Or  at  least  he  told  you  so  ;  — 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

Growing  proud,  I  say,  and  prouder 
To  the  crowd  that  come  and  go, 
Dainty  Deity  of  Powder, 

Fickle  Queen  of  Fop  and  Beau, 
As  you  sit  where  lustres  strike  you, 

Sure  to  please, 
Do  we  love  you  most,  or  like  you, 

"Belle  Marquise!"" 


You  are  fair  ;  O  yes,  we  know  it 

Well,  Marquise : 
For  he  swore  it,  your  last  poet, 

On  his  knees; 

And  he  called  all  heaven  to  witness 
Of  his  ballad  and  its  fitness, 

"  Belle  Marquise  ! "  — 
You  were  everything  in  ere 
(With  exception  of  severe),  — 
You  were  cruelle  and  rebelle, 
With  the  rest  of  rhymes  as  well ; 
You  were  "  Reine,"  and  "  Mere  d" Amour"; 

You  were  "  Ve'nus  A  Cythere"; 
"  Sjppho  mise  en  Pompadour," 

And  "  Minerve  en  Parabere  "; 
You  had  every  grace  of  heaven 
In  your  most  angelic  face, 
32 


UNE  MARQUISE. 

With  the  nameless  finer  leaven 

Lent  of  blood  and  courtly  race  ; 
And  he  added,  too,  in  duty, 
Ninon's  wit  and  Boufflers'  beauty; 
And  La  Valliere's  yeux  veloute's 

Followed  these ; 
And  you  liked  it,  when  he  said  it 

(On  his  knees), 
And  you  kept  it,  and  you  read  it, 

"Belle  Marquise!' 


Yet  with  us  your  toilet  graces 

Fail  to  please, 
And  the  last  of  your  last  faces, 

And  your  mise ; 
For  we  hold  you  just  as  real, 

"  Belle  Marquise'.' 
As  your  Berbers  and  Bergeres, 
lies  cT Amour  and  Batelleres ; 
As  your  pares,  and  your  Versailles, 
Gardens,  grottoes,  and  rocailles ; 
As  your  Naiads  and  your  trees  ;  — 
Just  as  near  the  old  ideal 

Calm  and  ease, 

As  the  Venus  there,  by  Coustou, 
That  a  fan  would  make  quite  flighty, 
VOL.  i. -3  33 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

Is  to  her  the  gods  were  used  to,  — 
Is  to  grand  Greek  Aphrodite, 

Sprung  from  seas.  ' 
You  are  just  a  porcelain  trifle, 

"  Belle  Marquise!' 
Just  a  thing  of  puffs  and  patches, 
Made  for  madrigals  and  catches, 
Not  for  heart-wounds,  but  for  scratches, 

O  Marquise  1 
Just  a  pinky  porcelain  trifle, 

"  Belle  Marquise! 
Wrought  in  rarest  rose-Dubarry, 
Quick  at  verbal  point  and  parry, 
Clever,  doubtless  ;  —  but  to  marry, 

No,  Marquise  I 


IV. 


For  your  Cupid,  you  have  clipped  him, 

Rouged  and  patched  him,  nipped  and  snipped  him. 

And  with  chapeau-bras  equipped  him, 

"  Belle  Marquise  /" 

Just  to  arm  you  through  your  wife-time, 
And  the  languors  of  your  life-time, 

"Belle  Marquise  /" 
Say,  to  trim  your  toilet  tapers, 
Or,  —  to  twist  your  hair  in  papers, 
34 


UNI-   MARQUISE. 

Or,  —  to  wean  you  from  the  vapours  ;  — 
As  for  these, 

You  are  worth  the  love  they  give  you, 

Till  a  fairer  face  outlive  you, 
Or  a  younger  grace  shall  please  ; 

Till  the  coming  of  the  crows'  feet, 

And  the  backward  turn  of  beaux'  feet, 

"  Belle  Marquise!"- 

Till  your  frothed-out  life's  commotion 

Settles  down  to  Ennui's  ocean, 

Or  a  dainty  sham  devotion, 

"Belle  Marquise!" 


V. 


No  :  we  neither  like  nor  love  you, 

"  Belle  Marquise !' 
Lesser  lights  we  place  above  you,  — 

Milder  merits  better  please. 
We  have  passed  from  Philosophe-dom 

Into  plainer  modern  days, — 
Grown  contented  in  our  oafdom, 

Giving  grace  not  all  the  praise  ; 
And,  en  partant,  Arsinoe", — 

Without  malice  whatsoever,  — 
We  shall  counsel  to  our  Chloe 

To  be  rather  good  than  clever ; 
3.S 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

For  we  find  it  hard  to  smother 

Just  one  little  thought,  Marquise  1 
Wittier  perhaps  than  any  other,  — 
You  were  neither  Wife  nor  Mother, 

"Belle  Marquise!' 


THE  STORY  OF  ROSIN  A. 
THE   STORY  OF   ROSINA. 

AN    INCIDENT    IN   THE    LIFE   OF   FRANCOIS    BOUCHER. 
"  On  ne  badine pas  avec  I' amour" 

HPHE    scene,   a    wood.      A   shepherd    tip-toe 

creeping, 

Carries  a  basket,  whence  a  billet  peeps, 
To  lay  beside  a  silk-clad  Oread  sleeping 

Under  an  urn  ;  yet  not  so  sound  she  sleeps 
But  that  she  plainly  sees  his  graceful  act ; 
"  He  thinks  she  thinks  he  thinks  she  sleeps,"  in 
fact. 

One    hardly    needs    the    "  Peint    par    Francois 
Boucher." 

All  the  sham  life  comes  back  again,  —  one  sees 
Alc&ves,  Ruelles,  the  Lever,  and  the  Coucher, 

Patches  and  Ruffles,  Routs  and  Marquises  ; 
The  little  great,  the  infinite  small  thing 
That  ruled  the  hour  when  Louis  Quinze  was  king. 

For  these  were  yet  the  days  of  halcyon  weather,— 
A  "  Martin's  summer",  when  the  nation  swam, 

Aimless  and  easy  as  a  wayward  feather, 
Down  the  full  tide  of  jest  and  epigram  ;  — 

A  careless  time,  when  France's  bluest  blood 

Beat  to  the  tune  of  "After  us  the  flood." 
37 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

Plain  Roland  still  was  placidly  "  inspecting," 
Not  now  Camille  had  stirred  the  Cafe  Foy; 

Marat  was  young,  and  Guiliotin  dissecting, 
Corday  unborn,  and  Lamballe  in  Savoie  ; 

No  faubourg  yet  had  heard  the  Tocsin  ring  :  — 

This  was  the  summer  —  when  Grasshoppers  sing. 

And  far  afield  were  sun-baked  savage  creatures, 
Female  and  male,   that   tilled   the  earth,   and 

wrung 
Want   from   the   soil ;  —  lean   things   with   livid 

features, 

Shape  of  bent  man,  and  voice  that  never  sung : 
These  were  the  Ants,  for  yet  to  Jacques  Bon- 

homme 
Tumbrils  were  not,  nor  any  sound  of  drum. 

But  Boucher  was  a  Grasshopper,  and  painted,  — 

Rose-water  Raphael,  —  en  couleur  de  rose, 
The   crowned   Caprice,   whose   sceptre,   nowise 

sainted, 
Swayed   the  light   realm   of  ballets  and    bon- 

mots  ;  — 

Ruled  the  dim  boudoir's  demi-jour,  or  drove 
Pink-ribboned  flocks  through  some  pink-flowered 
grove. 

A  laughing  Dame,  who  sailed  a  laughing  cargo 
Of  flippant  loves  along  the  Fleuve  du  Tendre  ; 


THE  STORY  OF  ROSIN 'A. 

Whose  greatest  grace  was  jupes  d.  la  Camargo, 
Whose  gentlest  merit  gentiment  se  rendre  ;  — 
Queen  of  the  rouge-cheeked  Hours,  whose  foot- 
steps fell 
To  Rameau's  notes,  in  dances  by  Gardel ;  — 

Her  Boucher  served,  till  Nature's  self  betraying, 
As  Wordsworth  sings,  the  heart  that  loved  her 
not, 

Made  of  his  work  a  land  of  languid  Maying, 
Filled  with  false  gods  and  muses  misbegot ;  — • 

A  Versailles  Eden  of  cosmetic  youth, 

Wherein  most  things  went  naked,  save  the  Truth. 

Once,  only  once,  —  perhaps  the  last  night's  revels 
Palled  in  the  after-taste,  —  our  Boucher  sighed 
For  that  first  beauty,  falsely  named  the  Devil's, 
Young-lipped,  unlessoned,  joyous,  and  clear- 
eyed  ; 

Flung  down  his  palette  like  a  weary  man, 
And  sauntered  slowly  through  the  Rue  Sainte- 
Anne. 

Wherefore,  we  know  not ;  but,  at  times,  far  nearer 
Things  common  come,  and  lineaments  half-seen 
Grow  in  a  moment  magically  clearer  ;  — 

Perhaps,  as  he  walked,  the  grass  he  called  "too 
green  " 

39 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

Rose  and  rebuked  him,  or  the  earth  "  ill-lighted" 
Silently  smote  him  with  the  charms  he  slighted. 

But,  as  he  walked,  he  tired  of  god  and  goddess, 
Nymphs  that  deny,  and  shepherds  that  appeal ; 

Stale  seemed  the  trick  of  kerchief  and  of  bodice, 
Folds  that  confess,  and  flutters  that  reveal ; 

Then  as  he  grew  more  sad  and  disenchanted, 

Forthwith  he  spied  the  very  thing  he  wanted. 

So,  in  the  Louvre,  the  passer-by  might  spy  some 
Arch-looking  head,  with  half-evasive  air, 

Start  from  behind  the  fruitage  of  Van  Huysum, 
Grape-bunch  and  melon,  nectarine  and  pear :  — 

Here  'twas  no  Venus  of  Batavian  city, 

But  a  French  girl,  young,  piquante,  bright,  and 
pretty. 

Graceful  she  was,  as  some  slim  marsh-flower  shaken 
Among  the  sallows,  in  the  breezy  Spring  ; 

Blithe  as  the  first  blithe  song  of  birds  that  waken, 
Fresh  as  a  fresh  young  pear-tree  blossoming ; 

Black  was  her  hair  as  any  blackbird's  feather  ; 

Just  for  her  mouth,  two  rose-buds  grew  together. 

Sloes  were  her  eyes ;  but  her  soft  cheeks  were 

peaches, 

Hued  like  an  Autumn  pippin,  where  the  red 
40 


THE  STORY  OF  ROSIN  A. 

Seems  to  have  burned  right  through  the  skin,  and 

reaches 

E'en  to  the  core  ;  and  if  you  spoke,  it  spread 
Up  till  the  blush  had  vanquished  all  the  brown, 
And,  like  two  birds,  the   sudden  lids   dropped 

down. 

As  Boucher  smiled,  the  bright  black  eyes  ceased 
dancing, 

As  Boucher  spoke,  the  dainty  red  eclipse 
Filled  all  the  face  from  cheek  to  brow,  enhancing 

Half  a  shy  smile  that  dawned  around  the  lips. 
Then  a  shrill  mother  rose  upon  the  view  ; 
"  Cerises,  M'sieul  Rosine,  d&p£che\-vous ! " 

Deep  in  the  fruit  her  hands  Rosina  buries, 
Soon  in  the  scale  the  ruby  bunches  lay. 

The  painter,  watching  the  suspended  cherries, 
Never  had  seen  such  little  fingers  play  ;  — 

As  for  the  arm,  no  Hebe's  could  be  rounder ; 

Low  in  his  heart  a  whisper  said  "  I  've  found  her." 

"  Woo    first    the    mother,    if    you  'd   win    the 

daughter  1  " 
Boucher  was  charmed,  and  turned  to  Madame 

Mire, 

Almost  with  tears  of  suppliance  besought  her 
Leave  to  immortalize  a  face  so  fair ; 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

Praised  and  cajoled  so  craftily  that  straightway 
Void  Rosina,  —  standing  at  his  gateway. 

Shy  at  the  first,  in  time  Rosina's  laughter 
Rang  through  the  studio  as  the  girlish  face 

Peeped  from  some  painter's  travesty,  or  after 
Showed  like  an  Omphale  in  lion's  case  ; 

Gay  as  a  thrush,  that  from  the  morning  dew 

Pipes  to  the  light  its  clear  " 


Just  a  mere  child  with  sudden  ebullitions, 
Flashes  of  fun,  and  little  bursts  of  song, 

Petulant  pains,  and  fleeting  pale  contritions, 
Mute  little  moods  of  misery  and  wrong; 

Only  a  child,  of  Nature's  rarest  making, 

Wistful  and  sweet,  —  and  with  a  heart  for  breaking  I 

Day  after  day  the  little  loving  creature 
Came  and  returned  ;  and  still  the  Painter  felt, 

Day  after  day,  the  old  theatric  Nature 

Fade  from  his  sight,  and  like  a  shadow  melt 

Paniers  and  Powder,  Pastoral  and  Scene, 

Killed  by  the  simple  beauty  of  Rosine. 

As  for  the  girl,  she  turned  to  her  new  being,  — 
Came,  as  a  bird  that  hears  its  fellow  call  ; 

Blessed,  as  the  blind  that  blesses  God  for  seeing  ; 

Grew  as  the  flower  on  which  the  sun-rays  fall  ; 

42 


THE  STORY  OF  ROSIN  A. 

Loved  if  you  will ;  she  never  named  it  so : 
Love  comes  unseen,  —  we  only  see  it  go. 

There  is  a  figure  among  Boucher's  sketches, 
Slim,  —  a  child-face,  the  eyes  as  black  as  beads, 

Head  set  askance,  and  hand  that  shyly  stretches 
Flowers  to  the  passer,  with  a  look  that  pleads. 

This  was  no  other  than  Rosina  surely  ;  — 

None  Boucher  knew  could  else  have  looked  so 
purely. 

But  forth  her  Story,  for  I  will  not  tarry : 
Whether  he  loved  the  little  "  nut-brown  maid  "  ; 

If,  of  a  truth,  he  counted  this  to  carry 
Straight  to  the  end,  or  just  the  whim  obeyed, 

Nothing  we  know,  but  only  that  before 

More  had  been  done,  a  finger  tapped  the  door. 

Opened  Rosina  to  the  unknown  comer. 

'Twas  a  young  girl  —  "  une  pauvre  fille,"  she 

said, 
"  They  had  been  growing  poorer  all  the  summer ; 

Father  was  lame,  and  mother  lately  dead  ; 
Bread  was  so  dear,  and,  — oh !  but  want  was  bitter, 
Would  Monsieur  pay  to  have  her  for  a  sitter? 

Men  called  her  pretty."      Boucher    looked    a 

minute  : 

Yes,  she  was  pretty  ;  and  her  face  beside 
43 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

Shamed  her  poor  clothing   by  a  something  in 

it, — 

Grace,  and  a  presence  hard  to  be  denied  ; 
This  was  no  common  offer  it  was  certain  ;  — 
"  Alle\,  Rosina  !  sit  behind  the  curtain." 

Meanwhile  the  Painter,  with  a  mixed  emotion, 
Drew  and  re-drew  his  ill-disguised  Marquise, 

Passed  in  due  time  from  praises  to  devotion ; 
Last  when  his  sitter  left  him  on  his  knees, 

Rose  in  a  maze  of  passion  and  surprise,  — 

Rose,  and  beheld  Rosina's  saddened  eyes. 

Thrice-happy  France,  whose  facile  sons  inherit 

Still  in  the  old  traditionary  way, 
Power  to  enjoy  —  with  yet  a  rarer  merit, 

Power  to  forget !     Our  Boucher  rose,  I  say, 
With   hands   still    prest    to    heart,   with    pulses 

throbbing, 
And  blankly  stared  at  poor  Rosina  sobbing. 

"This  was  no  model,  M'sieu,  but  a  lady." 
Boucher  was  silent,  for  he  knew  it  true. 
"Est-ce  que  vous  Valme\  I  "     Never  answer  made 

he! 

Ah,  for  the  old  love  fighting  with  the  new  I 
44 


THE  STORY  OF  kOSlNA. 

"  Est-ce  que  vous  raime\1"  sobbed  Rosina's  sor- 
row. 

"Bon/"  murmured  Boucher;  "she  will  come 
to-morrow." 

How  like  a  Hunter  thou,  O  Time,  dost  harry 
Us,  thine  oppressed,  and  pleasured  with  the 
chase, 

Sparest  to  strike  thy  sorely-running  quarry, 
Following  not  less  with  unrelenting  face. 

Time,  if  Love  hunt,  and  Sorrow  hunt,  with  thee, 

Woe  to  the  Fawn  I    There  is  no  way  to  flee. 

Woe  to  Rosina  !    By  To-morrow  stricken, 

Swift  from  her  life  the  sun  of  gold  declined. 
Nothing   remained   but  those   gray  shades   that 

thicken, 
Cloud   and   the  cold,  —  the  loneliness  —  the 

wind. 

Only  a  little  by  the  door  she  lingers,  — 
Waits,  with  wrung  lip  and  interwoven  fingers. 

No,  not  a  sign.     Already  with  the  Painter 

Grace  and  the  nymphs  began  recovered  reign  ; 
Truth  was  no  more,  and  Nature,  waxing  fainter, 

Paled  to  the  old  sick  Artifice  again. 
Seeing  Rosina  going  out  to  die, 
How  should  he  know  what  Fame  had  passed 
him  by? 

45 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 

Going  to  die  !    For  who  shall  waste  in  sadness, 
Shorn  of  the  sun,  the  very  warmth  and  light, 
Miss  the   green   welcome  of  the   sweet  earth's 

gladness, 
Lose   the  round   life   that  only    Love   makes 

bright : 

There  is  no  succour  if  these  things  are  taken. 
None   but   Death   loves  the  lips   by   Love  for- 
saken. 

So,  in  a  little,  when  those  Two  had  parted,  — 
Tired  of  himself,  and  weary  as  before, 

Boucher  remembering,  sick  and  sorry-hearted, 
Stayed  for  a  moment  by  Rosina's  door. 

"  Ah,  the  poor  child  !  "  the  neighbours  cry  of  her, 

"  Morte,  M'sieu,  morte !    On  dit,  —  des  peines  de 
cceur!" 

Just  for  a  second,  say,  the  tidings  shocked  him, 
Say,  in  his  eye  a  sudden  tear-drop  shone,  — 

Just  for  a  second  a  dull  feeling  mocked  him 
With  a  vague  sense  of  something  priceless  gone ; 

Then,  —  for  at  best  'twas  but  the  empty  type, 

The  husk  of  man  with  which  the  days  were  ripe,  — 

Then,  he  forgot  her.     But,  for  you  that  slew  her, 
You,  her  own  sister,  that  with  airy  ease, 

Just  for  a  moment's  fancy  could  undo  her, 
Pass  on  your  way.     A  little  while,  Marquise, 
46 


THE  STORY  OF  ROSIN A. 

Be  the  sky  silent,  be  the  sea  serene ; 

A  pleasant  passage  —  d  Sainte  Guillotine  ! 

As  for  Rosina,  —  for  the  quiet  sleeper, 

Whether  stone  hides  her,  or  the  happy  grass, 

If  the  sun  quickens,  if  the  dews  beweep  her, 
Laid  in  the  Madeleine  or  Montparnasse, 

Nothing  we  know,  —  but  that  her  heart  is  cold, 

Poor  beating  heart !    And  so  the  story 's  told. 


47 


PROVERBS   IN   PORCELAIN. 

"  Rien  en  relief" 


VOL.  i.  —  4 


PROLOGUE. 


A  SSUME  that  we  are  friends.    Assume 

A  common  taste  for  old  costume, 
Old  pictures, — books.    Then  dream  us  sitting, 
Us  two,  —  m  some  soft-lighted  room. 


Outside,  the  wind;  —  the  "ways  are  mire." 
We,  with  our  faces  towards  the  fire, 

Finished  the  feast  not  full  but  fitting, 
Watch  the  light-leaping  flames  aspire. 

Silent  at  first,  in  time  we  glow  ; 
Discuss  "  eclectics"  high  and  low  ; 

Inspect  engravings,  'twixt  us  passing 
The  fancies  of  DETROY,  MOREAU  ; 

"Reveils"  and  "Couchers,"  "Balls"  and  "Petes' 
Anon  we  glide  to  "crocks'"  and  plates, 
Grow  eloquent  on  gla^e  and  classing, 
And  half-pathetic  over  "states." 
S1 


PROVERBS  IN  PORCELAIN. 

Then  I  produce  my  Pri^e.  in  truth;  — 
Six  groups  in  SEVRES,  fresh  as  Youth, 

And  rare  as  Love.     You  pause,  you  wonder, 
(Pretend  to  doubt  the  marks,  forsooth  /) 

And  so  we  fall  to  why  and  hoiv 
The  fragile  figures  smile  and  bow  ; 

Divine,  at  length,  the  fable  under  .  .  . 
Thus  grew  the  "  Scenes"  that  follow  now. 


THE  BALLAD  A-LA-MODE. 

THE   BALLAD  A-LA-MODE. 

"  Tout  vient  ct  point  &  qui  sait  attendre. " 

SCENE. — A  Boudoir  Louis-Quince,  painted  with 
Cupids  shooting  at  Butterflies. 

THE  COUNTESS.     THE  BARON  (her  cousin  and 
suitor). 

THE  COUNTESS  (looking  up  from  her  work). 
OARON,  you  doze. 

THE  BARON  (closing  his  book). 

I,  Madame  ?     No. 
I  wait  your  order  —  Stay  or  Go. 

THE  COUNTESS. 

Which  means,  I  think,  that  Go  or  Stay 
Affects  you  nothing,  either  way. 

THE  BARON. 

Excuse  me,  —  By  your  favour  graced, 
My  inclinations  are  effaced. 

THE  COUNTESS. 

Or  much  the  same.     How  keen  you  grow  I 
You  must  be  reading  MARIVAUX. 
S3 


PROVERBS  IN  PORCELAIN. 

THE  BARON. 
Nay,  —  'twas  a  song  of  SAINTE-AULAIRE. 

THE  COUNTESS. 

Then  read  me  one.     We  've  time  to  spare 
If  I  can  catch  the  clock-face  there, 
'Tis  barely  eight. 

THE  BARON. 

What  shall  it  be,  — 
A  tale  of  woe,  or  perfidy  ? 

THE  COUNTESS. 

Not  woes,  I  beg.     I  doubt  your  woes  : 
But  perfidy,  of  course,  one  knows. 

THE  BARON  (reads). 
"  '  Ah,  Phillis  !  cruel  Phillis ! 

(I  heard  a  Shepherd  say,) 
You  hold  me  with  your  Eyes,  and  yet 

You  bid  me —  Go  my  Way  I ' 

"  '  Ah,  Colin  !  foolish  Colin/ 

(The  Maiden  answered  so,) 
If  that  be  All,  the  III  is  small, 

I  close  them  —  You  may  go  I " 
54 


THE  BALLAD  ^-LA-MODE. 

"  But  when  her  Eyes  she  opened, 

(Although  the  Sun  it  shone,') 
She  found  the  Shepherd  had  not  stirred  — 

4  Because  the  Light  was  gone  /' 


"Ah,  Cupid !  wanton  Cupid / 

'Twas  ever  thus  your  Way  : 
When  Maids  would  bid  you  ply  your  Wings, 

You  find  Excuse  to  stay  I " 

THE  COUNTESS. 

Famous  !     He  earned  whate'er  he  got :  — 
But  there 's  some  sequel,  is  there  not  ? 

THE  BARON  (turning  the  page). 
I  think  not.  —  No.     Unless  'tis  this  : 
My  fate  is  far  more  hard  than  his  ;  — 
In  fact,  your  Eyes  — 

THE  COUNTESS. 

Now,  that's  a  breach  I 
Your  bond  is  —  not  to  make  a  speech. 
And  we  must  start  —  so  call  JUSTINE. 
I  know  exactly  what  you  mean  !  — 
Give  me  your  arm  — 
55 


PROVERBS  IN  PORCELAIN. 

THE  BARON. 

If,  in  return, 
Countess,  I  could  your  hand  but  earn  1 

THE  COUNTESS. 

I  thought  as  much.     This  comes,  you  see, 
Of  sentiment,  and  Arcady, 
Where  vows  are  hung  on  every  tree.  .  .  . 

THE  BARON  (offering  his  arm,  wilh  a  low  bow). 
And  no  one  dreams  —  of  PERFIDY. 


THE  METAMORPHOSIS. 
THE   METAMORPHOSIS. 

"  On  s'enrichit  quand  on  dort." 

SCENE.  — A  high  stone  Seat  in  an  Alley  of  clipped 
Lime-trees. 

THE  ABBE  TIRILI.  MONSIEUR  L'ETOILE. 

THE  ABBE  (writing). 

"  yT*///S  shepherdess  Dorine  adored  —  " 

What  rhyme  is  next?  Implored) — ignored! 
Poured  1 — soared) — afford*    That  facile  Dunce, 
L'ETOILE,  would  cap  the  line  at  once. 
'Twill  come  in  time.     Meanwhile,  suppose 
We  take  a  meditative  doze. 

(Sleeps.     By-and-by  his  paper  falls.) 

M.  L'ETOILE  (approaching  from  the  back). 
Some  one  before  me.     What  1  'tis  you, 
Monsieur  the  Scholar  ?    Sleeping  too  1 

(Picks  up  the  fluttering  paper.) 
More  "  Tales,"  of  course.     One  can't  refuse 
To  chase  so  fugitive  a  Muse  ! 
57 


PROVERBS  IN  PORCELAIN. 

Verses  are  public,  too,  that  fly 
"  Cum  privilegio  "  —  Zephyri ! 

(Reads.) 

"  CLITANDER  AND  DORINE."     Insane  I 
He  fancies  he 's  a  LA  FONTAINE  1 
"  In  early  Days,  the  Gods,  we  find, 
Paid  casual  Visits  to  Mankind  ;  — 
At  least,  authentic  Records  say  so 
In  Publius  Ovidius  Naso." 
(Three  names  for  one.     This  passes  all. 
'Tis  "  furiously  "  classical !) 
"No  doubt  their  Purpose  oft  would  be 
Some  'Nodus  dignus  V indie e  ' ; 
4  On  dit,'  not  less,  these  earthward  Tours 
Were  mainly  Matters  of  Amours. 
And  Woe  to  him  whose  luckless  Flame 
Impeded  that  Olympic  Game ; 
Ere  he  could  say  an  '  Ave  '  o'er, 
They  changed  him  —  like  a  Louis-d'or." 
("  Aves,"  and  current  coinage  !     O  1  — 
O  shade  of  NICOLAS  BOILEAU  !) 
"Bird,  Beast,  or  River  he  became: 
With  Women  it  was  much  the  same. 
In  Ovid  Case  to  Case  succeeds  ; 
But  Names  the  Reader  never  reads." 
(That  is,  Monsieur  the  Abbe  feels 
His  quantities  are  out  at  heels  !) 

53 


THE  METAMORPHOSIS. 

"Suffices  that,  for  this  our  Tale, 
There  dwelt  in  a  Thessalian  Vale, 
Of  Tales  like  this  the  frequent  Scene, 
A  Shepherdess,  by  name  Dorine. 
Trim  Waist,  ripe  Lips,  bright  Eyes,  had  she  ;  — 
In  short,  —  the  whole  Artillery. 
Her  Beauty  made  some  local  Stir ;  — 
Men  marked  it.     So  did  Jupiter. 
This  Shepherdess  Dorine  adored.  .  .  ." 
Implored,  ignored,  and  soared,  and  poured  — 
(He  's  scrawled  them  here  !)     We  '11  sum  in  brief 
His  fable  on  his  second  leaf. 
(Write.) 

There,  they  shall  know  who  'twas  that  wrote  :  — 
"  L'^TOILE'S  is  but  a  mock-bird's  note.'"'        [Exit. 

THE  ABB£  (waking). 

Implored's  the  word,  I  think.     But  where,  — 
Where  is  my  paper  ?    Ah  I  'tis  there  1 
Eh  I  what? 

(Reads.) 

THE  METAMORPHOSIS. 

(not  in  Ovid.) 
"  The  Shepherdess  Dorine  adored 

The  Shepherd-Boy  Clitander; 
But  Jove  himself,  Olympus"  Lord, 
The  Shepherdess  Dorine  adored. 
S'J 


PROVERBS   IN  PORCELAIN. 

Our  Abbis  Aid  the  Pair  Implored;  — 
And  changed  to  Goose  and  Gander, 
The  Shepherdess  Dorine  adored 
The  Shepherd-Boy  Clitander  I " 

L'IITOILE,  —  by  all  the  Muses  ! 

Peste  I 

He's  off,  post-haste,  to  tell  the  rest. 
No  matter.     Laugh,  Sir  Dunce,  to-day ; 
Next  time  'twill  be  my  turn  to  play. 


60 


THE  SONG  OUT  OP  SEASON. 
THE   SONG   OUT  OF  SEASON. 

"  Point  de  culte  sans  mystire." 

SCENE.  —  A  Corridor  in  a  Chateau,  with  Busts  and 
Venice  chandeliers. 

MONSIEUR  L'ETOILE.        Two  VOICES. 
M.  L'ETOILE  (carrying  a  Rose}. 

*T* HIS  is  the  place.     MUTINE  said  here. 

"Through  the  Mancini  room,  and  near 
The  fifth  Venetian  chandelier.  .  ." 
The  fifth  ?  —  She  knew  there  were  but  four ;  — 
Still,  here's  the  buslo  of  the  Moor. 
(Humming.} 

Tra-la,  tra-la!    If  BIJOU  wake, 
He  '11  bark,  no  doubt,  and  spoil  my  shake  1 
I  '11  tap,  I  think.     One  can't  mistake  ; 
This  surely  is  the  door. 

(Sings  softly.) 
"  When  Jove,  the  Skies'  Director, 

First  saw  you  sleep  of  yore. 
He  cried  aloud  for  Nectar, 
61 


PROVERBS  IN  PORCELAIN. 

lThe  Nectar  quickly  pour,  — 
The  Nectar,  Hebe,  pour!" 

(No  sound.     I  '11  tap  once  more.) 

(Sings  again.) 
"  Then  came  the  Sire  Apollo, 

He  past  you  where  you  lay; 
'  Come,  Dian,  rise  and  follow 
The  dappled  Hart  to  slay,  — 
The  rapid  Hart  to  slay. '  " 

(A  rustling  within.) 

(Coquette  !    She  heard  before.) 

(Sings  again.) 

"  And  urchin  Cupid  after 
Beside  the  Pillow  curled, 

He  whispered  you  with  Laughter, 
'  Awake  and  witch  the  World, — 
O  Venus,  witch  the  World  I ' " 

(Now  comes  the  last.     Tis  scarcely  worse, 
I  think,  than  Monsieur  I'ABBE'S  verse.) 

*'  So  waken,  waken,  waken, 
O  You,  whom  we  adore, 

Where  Gods  can  be  mistaken 
Mere  Mortals  must  be  more,  — 
Poor  Mortals  must  be  more ! " 
62 


THE  SONG  OUT  OF  SEASON. 
(That  merits  an  encore.) 

"  So  waken,  waken,  waken  ! 
O  YOU  whom  we  adore  1 " 

(An  energetic  VOICE.) 
Tis  thou,  ANTOINE  ?    Ah,  Addle-pate  I 
Ah,  Thief  of  Valet,  always  late  I 
Have  I  not  told  thee  half-past  eight 
A  thousand  times  ! 

(Great  agitation.) 

But  wait,  —  but  wait,  — 

M.  L'ETOILE  (stupefied}. 

Just  Skies  1     What  hideous  roar  !  — 
What  lungs  !    The  infamous  Soubrette  ! 
This  is  a  turn  I  sha'n't  forget :  — 
To  make  me  sing  my  chansonnette 

Before  old  JOURDAIN'S  door  1 

(Retiring  slowly.} 

And  yet,  and  yet,  — it  can't  be  she. 
They  prompted  her.     Who  can  it  be  ? 

(A  second  VOICE.) 
IT  WAS  THE  ABBS  Ti— RI — LI  I 
63 


PROVERBS  IN  PORCELAIN. 

(In  a  mocking  falsetto.) 
'  Where  Gods  can  be  mistaken, 
Mere  Poets  must  be  more,  — 
BAD  POETS  must  be  more." 


THE  CAP   THAT  FITS. 
THE   CAP  THAT   FITS. 

"  Qui  slme  tpines  tfaille  dechaux." 

SCENE.  —  A  Salon  with  blue  and  white  Panels. 
Outside,  Persons  pass  and  re-pass  upon  a 
Terrace. 

HORTENSE.     ARMANDE.     MONSIEUR  LOYAL. 

HORTENSE  (behind  her  fan.) 
IVTOT  young,  I  think. 

ARMANDE  (raising  her  eye-glass"). 

And  faded,  too  !  — 
Quite  faded  1     Monsieur,  what  say  you  ? 

M.  LOYAL. 

Nay,  —  I  defer  to  you.     In  truth, 
To  me  she  seems  all  grace  and  youth. 

HORTENSE. 

Graceful  ?    You  think  it  >    What,  with  hands 
That  hang  like  this  (with  a  gesture). 

ARMANDE. 

And  how  she  stands  ! 
VOL.  i.  —  5  65 


PRO 'SERBS  IN  PORCELAIN. 

M.   LOYAL. 

Nay,  —  I  am  wrong  again.     I  thought 
Her  air  delightfully  untaught  1 

HORTENSE. 
But  you  amuse  me  — 

M.  LOYAL. 

Still  her  dress,  — 
Her  dress  at  least,  you  must  confess  — 

ARMANDE. 

Is  odious  simply  1     JACOTOT 
Did  not  supply  that  lace,  I  know ; 
And  where,  I  ask,  has  mortal  seen 
A  hat  unfeathered  ! 

HORTENSE. 

Edged  with  green  I 

M.  LOYAL. 

The  words  remind  me.     Let  me  say 
A  Fable  that  I  heard  to-day. 
Have  I  permission? 

BOTH  (with  enthusiasm}. 

Monsieur,  pray  1 
66 


THE  CAP   THAT  FITS. 

M.  LOYAL. 

"  Myrtilla  (lest  a  Scandal  rise 
The  Lady's  Name  I  thus  disguise), 
Dying  of  Ennui,  once  decided,  — 
Much  on  Resource  herself  she  prided,  — 
To  choose  a  Hat.     Forthwith  she  flies 
On  that  momentous  Enterprise. 
Whether  to  Petit  or  Legros, 
I  know  not :  only  this  I  know  ;  — 
Head-dresses  then,  of  any  Fashion, 
Bore  Names  of  Quality  or  Passion. 
Myrlilla  tried  them,  almost  all : 
4  Prudence,'  she  felt,  was  somewhat  small; 
i  Retirement '  seemed  the  Eyes  to  hide  ; 
1  Content.'  at  once,  she  cast  aside. 
1  Simplicity,'  —  'twas  out  of  place; 
'  Devotion,"  for  an  older  face ; 
Briefly,  Selection  smaller  grew, 
'  Vexatious  !'  odious  / —  none  would  do  ! 
Then,  on  a  sudden,  she  espied 
One  that  she  thought  she  had  not  tried  : 
Becoming,  rather,  — «  edged  with  green,'  — 
Roses  in  yellow,  Thorns  between. 
'  Quick  !  Bring  me  that ! '  'Tis  brought.  «  Complete, 
Divine,  Enchanting,  Tasteful,  Neat,' 
In  all  the  Tones.     '  And  this  you  call  —  ? ' 
'  "  ILL-NATURE,"  Madame.    It  Jits  all.'  " 
67 


PROVERBS  IN  PORCELAIN. 
HORTENSE. 

A  thousand  thanks  !     So  naively  turned  ! 

ARMANDE. 

So  useful  too  ...  to  those  concerned  ! 
'Tis  yours  > 

M.  LOYAL. 

Ah  no,  — some  cynic  wit's  ; 
And  called  (I  think)  — 

(Placing  his  hat  upon  his  breast), 

"  The  Cap  that  Fits." 


THE  SECRETS  OF  THE  HEART. 


THE  SECRETS   OF  THE   HEART. 

"  Le  cceur  mZne  oil  il  va." 

SCENE.  —  A  Chalet  covered  with  Honeysuckle. 
NINETTE.  NINON. 

NINETTE. 
T^HIS  way  — 

NINON. 
No,  this  way — 

NINETTE. 

This  way,  then. 
(They  enter  the  Chalet.) 
You  are  as  changing,  Child,  — as  Men. 

NINON. 

But  are  they  ?    Is  it  true,  I  mean  ? 
Who  said  it  ? 

NINETTE. 
Sister  S^RAPHINE. 
She  was  so  pious  and  so  good, 
69 


PROVERBS  IN  PORCELAIN. 

With  such  sad  eyes  beneath  her  hood, 
And  such  poor  little  feet,  —  all  bare  I 
Her  name  was  EUGENIE  LA  FERE. 
She  used  to  tell  us,  —  moonlight  nights,  — 
When  I  was  at  the  Carmelites. 

NINON. 

Ah,  then  it  must  be  right.     And  yet, 
Suppose  for  once  —  suppose,  NINETTE  — 

NINETTE. 
But  what  ?  — 

NINON. 

Suppose  it  were  not  so  > 
Suppose  there  were  true  men,  you  know  ! 

NINETTE. 
And  then  ? 

NINON. 

Why,  —  if  that  could  occur, 
What  kind  of  man  should  you  prefer? 

NINETTE. 
What  looks,  you  mean  ? 

NINON. 

Looks,  voice  and  all. 
7° 


THE  SECRETS  OF  THE  HEART. 

NINETTE. 

Well,  as  to  that,  he  must  be  tall, 
Or  say,  not  "  tall," —  of  middle  size ; 
And  next,  he  must  have  laughing  eyes, 
And  a  hook-nose,  — with,  underneath, 

0  1  what  a  row  of  sparkling  teeth  !  — 

NINON  (touching  her  cheek  suspiciously). 
Has  he  a  scar  on  this  side  ? 

NINETTE. 

Hush! 
Someone  is  coming.     No  ;  a  thrush  : 

1  see  it  swinging  there. 

NINON. 

Go  on. 

NINETTE. 

Then  he  must  fence,  (ah,  look,  Vis  gone  !) 
And  dance  like  Monseigneur,  and  sing 
"  Love  was  a  Shepherd  "  :  —  everything 
That  men  do.     Tell  me  yours,  NINOM. 

NINON. 

Shall  I  ?  Then  mine  has  black,  black  hair.  . 
I  mean  he  should  have  ;  then  an  air 
7' 


PROVERBS  IN  PORCELAIN. 

Half  sad,  half  noble  ;  features  thin  ; 

A  little  royale  on  the  chin ; 

And  such  a  pale,  high  brow.     And  then, 

He  is  a  prince  of  gentlemen  ;  — 

He,  too,  can  ride  and  fence,  and  write 

Sonnets  and  madrigals,  yet  fight 

No  worse  for  that  — 

NINETTE. 

I  know  your  man. 

NINON. 

And  I  know  yours.     But  you'll  not  tell, — 
Swear  it  1 

NINETTE. 

I  swear  upon  this  fan,  — 
My  Grandmother's  ! 

NINON. 

And  I,  I  swear 

On  this  old  turquoise  reliquaire, — 
My  great,  —  great  Grandmother's  !  !  — 
(After  a  pause.) 

NINETTE  f 
I  feel  so  sad. 

72 


THE  SECRETS  OF   THE  HEART. 

NINETTE. 

I  too.     But  why  ? 

NINON. 
Alas,  I  know  not  1 

NINETTE  (with  a  sigh). 

Nor  do  I. 


73 


PROYERBS  IN  PORCELAIN. 
"GOOD-NIGHT,    BABETTE!" 

"  Si  vieillesse  fouvait  /  —  " 

SCENE.  —  A  small  neat  Room.     In  a  high  Voltaire 
Chair  sits  a  while-haired  old  Gentleman. 

MONSIEUR  VIEUXBOIS.  BABETTE. 

M.  VIEUXBOIS  (turning  querulously). 
"T^  AY  of  my  life  1     Where  can  she  get  ? 

BABETTE  1    I  say  !    BABETTE  1  —  BABETTE  1 

BABETTE  (entering  hurriedly). 
Coming,  M'sieu'  I     If  M'sieu'  speaks 
So  loud,  he  won't  be  well  for  weeks  1 

M.  VIEUXBOIS. 
Where  have  you  been  ? 

BABETTE. 

Why  M'sieu'  knows  :  — 
April ! . . .  Ville  d'Avray  1 ...  Ma'am'selle  ROSE  1 

M.  VIEUXBOIS. 

Ah  1  I  am  old,  —  and  I  forget. 
Was  the  place  growing  green,  BABETTE? 
74 


"GOOD-NIGHT,  BABETTE!" 

BABETTE. 

But  of  a  greenness  !  — yes,  M'sieu' ! 
And  then  the  sky  so  blue  !  —  so  blue  I 
And  when  I  dropped  my  immortelle, 
How  the  birds  sang  ! 

(Lifting  her  apron  to  her  eyes.} 

This  poor  Ma'am'selle! 

M.  VIEUXBOIS. 

You  're  a  good  girl,  BABETTE,  but  she, — 
She  was  an  Angel,  verily. 
Sometimes  I  think  I  see  her  yet 
Stand  smiling  by  the  cabinet ; 
And  once,  I  know,  she  peeped  and  laughed 
Betwixt  the  curtains  .  .  . 

Where  's  the  draught  ? 
(She  gives  him  a  cup.) 
Now  I  shall  sleep,  I  think,  BABETTE;  — 
Sing  me  your  Norman  chansonnelte. 

BABETTE  (sings'). 
"Once  at  the  Angelas 

(Ere  I  was  dead), 
Angels  all  glorious 

Came  to  my  Bed ; 
Angels  in  blue  and  white 
Crowned  on  the  Head." 
75 


PROVERBS  IN  PORCELAIN. 

M.  VIEUXBOIS  (drowsily). 

"  She  was  an  Angel " . . .  "  Once  she  laughed  "... 
What,  was  I  dreaming  ? 

Where 's  the  draught  ? 

BABETTE  (showing  the  empty  cup). 
The  draught,  M'sieu'? 

M.  VIEUXBOIS. 

How  I  forget! 
I  am  so  old  !     But  sing,  BABETTE  1 

BABETTE  (sings). 
"  One  was  the  Friend  I  left 

Stark  in  the  Snow  ; 
One  was  the  Wife  that  died 

Long,  —  long  ago  ; 
One  was  the  Love  I  lost . . . 

How  could  she  know ) " 

M.  VIEUXBOIS  (murmuring). 
Ah,  PAUL  I ...  old  PAUL  ! . . .  EULALIE  too  ! 
And  ROSE . . .  And  O  I  "the  sky  so  blue  1 " 

BABETTE  (sings). 
"  One  had  my  Mother's  eyes, 
Wistful  and  mild; 
76 


"GOOD-NIGHT,  BABETTE!" 

One  had  my  Father's  face  ; 

One  was  a  Child : 
All  of  them  bent  to  me,  — 
Bent  down  and  smiled  I " 
(He  is  asleep !) 

M.  VIEUXBOIS  (almost  inaudibl/). 

*'  How  I  forget !  " 
*'  I  am  so  old  I  "..."  Good-night,  BABETTE  I 


77 


PROVERBS  IN  PORCELAIN. 


EPILOGUE. 

TT EIGHO  I   how  chill  the  evenings  get ! 

•^  Good-night,  NINON  1 — good-night,  NINETTE  1 

Your  little  Play  is  played  and  finished ;  — 
Go  back,  then,  to  your  Cabinet! 

LOYAL,  L'ETOILE  !  no  more  to-day! 
Alas!  they  heed  not  what  we  say: 

They  smile  with  ardour  undiminished  ; 
But  we,  —  we  are  not  always  gay! 


VIGNETTES   IN   RHYME. 


THE  DRAMA  OF  THE  DOCTOR'S 
WINDOW. 

IN   THREE    ACTS,   WITH  A    PROLOGUE. 

"  A  tedious  brief  scene  of  young  Pyramus, 
And  his  love  Thisbe  ;  very  tragical  mirth" 

MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 
""\T7ELL,  I  must  wait  I  "    The  Doctor's  room, 

Where  I  used  this  expression, 
Wore  the  severe  official  gloom 
Attached  to  that  profession  ; 
Rendered  severer  by  a  bald 

And  skinless  Gladiator, 
Whose  raw  robustness  first  appalled 
The  entering  spectator. 

No  one  would  call  "The  Lancet"  gay, — 

Few  could  avoid  confessing 
That  Jones,  "  On  Muscular  Decay," 

Is,  as  a  rule,  depressing  : 
VOL.  i. —  6  81 


YIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

So,  leaving  both,  to  change  the  scene, 
I  turned  toward  the  shutter, 

And  peered  out  vacantly  between 
A  water-butt  and  gutter. 

Below,  the  Doctor's  garden  lay, 

If  thus  imagination 
May  dignify  a  square  of  clay 

Unused  to  vegetation, 
Filled  with  a  dismal-looking  swing  — 

That  brought  to  mind  a  gallows  — 
An  empty  kennel,  mouldering, 

And  two  dyspeptic  aloes. 

No  sparrow  chirped,  no  daisy  sprung, 

About  the  place  deserted  ; 
Only  across  the  swing-board  hung 

A  battered  doll,  inverted, 
Which  sadly  seemed  to  disconcert 

The  vagrant  cat  that  scanned  it, 
Sniffed  doubtfully  around  the  skirt, 

But  failed  to  understand  it. 

A  dreary  spot  I     And  yet,  I  own, 
Half  hoping  that,  perchance,  it 

Might,  in  some  unknown  way,  atone 
For  Jones  and  for  "  The  Lancet," 
82 


DRAMA  OF  THE  DOCTOR'S   WINDOW. 

I  watched  ;  and  by  especial  grace, 

Within  this  stage  contracted, 
Saw  presently  before  my  face 

A  classic  story  acted. 

Ah,  World  of  ours,  are  you  so  gray 

And  weary,  World,  of  spinning, 
That  you  repeat  the  tales  to-day 

You  told  at  the  beginning  ? 
For  lo  !   the  same  old  myths  that  made 

The  early  "  stage  successes," 
Still  "  hold  the  boards,"  and  still  are  played, 

"  With  new  effects  and  dresses." 

Small,  lonely  "  three-pair-backs"  behold, 

To-day,  Alcestis  dying ; 
To-day,  in  farthest  Polar  cold, 

Ulysses'  bones  are  lying  ; 
Still  in  one's  morning  "Times"  one  reads 

How  fell  an  Indian  Hector  ; 
Still  clubs  discuss  Achilles'  steeds, 

Briseis'  next  protector  ;  — 

Still  Menelaus  brings,  we  see, 

His  oft-remanded  case  on ; 
Still  somewhere  sad  Hypsipyle 

Bewails  a  faithless  Jason  ; 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

And  here,  the  Doctor's  sill  beside, 

Do  I  not  now  discover 
A  Thisbe,  whom  the  walls  divide 

From  Pyramus,  her  lover  ? 


ACT  THE  FIRST. 

Act  I.  began.     Some  noise  had  scared 

The  cat,  that  like  an  arrow 
Shot  up  the  wall  and  disappeared  ; 

And  then,  across  the  narrow, 
Unweeded  path,  a  small  dark  thing, 

Hid  by  a  garden-bonnet, 
Passed  wearily  towards  the  swing, 

Paused,  turned,  and  climbed  upon  it. 

A  child  of  five,  with  eyes  that  were 

At  least  a  decade  older, 
A  mournful  mouth,  and  tangled  hair 

Flung  careless  round  her  shoulder, 
Dressed  in  a  stiff  ill-fitting  frock, 

Whose  black,  uncomely  rigour 
Sardonically  seemed  to  mock 

The  plaintive,  slender  figure. 

What  was  it  ?    Something  in  the  dress 
That  told  the  girl  unmothered  ; 
84 


DRAMA  OF  THE  DOCTORS  WWDOW. 

Or  was  it  that  the  merciless 

Black  garb  of  mourning  smothered 

Life  and  all  light :  —  but  rocking  so, 
In  the  dull  garden-corner, 

The  lonely  swinger  seemed  to  grow 
More  piteous  and  forlorner. 

Then,  as  I  looked,  across  the  wall 

Of  "  next-door's  "  garden,  that  is  — 
To  speak  correctly  —  through  its  tall 

Surmounting  fence  of  lattice, 
Peeped  a  boy's  face,  with  curling  hair, 

Ripe  lips,  half  drawn  asunder, 
And  round,  bright  eyes,  that  wore  a  stare 

Of  frankest  childish  wonder. 

Rounder  they  grew  by  slow  degrees, 

Until  the  swinger,  swerving, 
Made,  all  at  once,  alive  to  these 

Intentest  orbs  observing, 
Gave  just  one  brief,  half-uttered  cry, 

And,  — as  with  gathered  kirtle, 
Nymphs  fly  from  Pan's  head  suddenly 

Thrust  through  the  budding  myrtle,  — 

Fled  in  dismay.     A  moment's  space, 
The  eyes  looked  almost  tragic  ; 
85 


VIGNETTES  ///  RHYME. 

Then,  when  they  caught  my  watching  face, 

Vanished  as  if  by  magic ; 
And,  like  some  sombre  thing  beguiled 

To  strange,  unwonted  laughter, 
The  gloomy  garden,  having  smiled, 

Became  the  gloomier  after. 


ACT  THE  SECOND. 

Yes  :  they  were  gone,  the  stage  was  bare,  — 

Blank  as  before  ;  and  therefore, 
Sinking  within  the  patient's  chair, 

Half  vexed,  I  knew  not  wherefore, 
I  dozed  ;  till,  startled  by  some  call, 

A  glance  sufficed  to  show  me, 
The  boy  again  above  the  wall, 

The  girl  erect  below  me. 


The  boy,  it  seemed,  to  add  a  force 

To  words  found  unavailing, 
Had  pushed  a  striped  and  spotted  horse 

Half  through  the  blistered  paling, 
Where  now  it  stuck,  stiff-legged  and  straight, 

While  he,  in  exultation, 
Chattered  some  half-articulate 

Excited  explanation. 
86 


DRAMA  OF  THE  DOCTORS  WINDOW. 

Meanwhile,  the  girl,  with  upturned  face, 

Stood  motionless,  and  listened  ; 
The  ill-cut  frock  had  gained  a  grace, 

The  pale  hair  almost  glistened  ; 
The  figure  looked  alert  and  bright, 

Buoyant  as  though  some  power 
Had  lifted  it,  as  rain  at  night 

Uplifts  a  drooping  flower. 


The  eyes  had  lost  their  listless  way, — 

The  old  life,  tired  and  faded, 
Had  slipped  down  with  the  doll  that  lay 

Before  her  feet,  degraded  ; 
She  only,  yearning  upward,  found 

In  those  bright  eyes  above  her 
The  ghost  of  some  enchanted  ground 

Where  even  Nurse  would  love  her. 


Ah,  tyrant  Time  1  you  hold  the  book, 

We,  sick  and  sad,  begin  it; 
You  close  it  fast,  if  we  but  look 

Pleased  for  a  meagre  minute  ; 
You  closed  it  now,  for,  out  of  sight, 

Some  warning  finger  beckoned  ; 
Exeunt  both  to  left  and  right ;  — 

Thus  ended  Act  the  Second. 
87 


WGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


ACT  THE  THIRD. 

Or  so  it  proved.     For  while  I  still 

Believed  them  gone  for  ever, 
Half  raised  above  the  window  sill, 

I  saw  the  lattice  quiver  ; 
And  lo,  once  more  appeared  the  head, 

Flushed,  while  the  round  mouth  pouted 
"  Give  Tom  a  kiss,"  the  red  lips  said, 

In  style  the  most  undoubted. 

The  girl  came  back  without  a  thought ; 

Dear  Muse  of  Mayfair,  pardon, 
If  more  restraint  had  not  been  taught 

In  this  neglected  garden  ; 
For  these  your  code  was  all  too  stiff, 

So,  seeing  none  dissented, 
Their  unfeigned  faces  met  as  if 

Manners  were  not  invented. 


Then  on  the  scene,  — by  happy  fate, 
When  lip  from  lip  had  parted, 

And,  therefore,  just  two  seconds  late,  - 
A  sharp-faced  nurse-maid  darted  ; 

Swooped  on  the  boy,  as  swoops  a  kite 
Upon  a  rover  chicken, 
88 


DRAMA  OF  THE  DOCTOR'S  WINDOW* 

And  bore  him  sourly  off,  despite 
His  well-directed  kicking. 

The  girl  stood  silent,  with  a  look 

Too  subtle  to  unravel, 
Then,  with  a  sudden  gesture  took 

The  torn  doll  from  the  gravel ; 
Hid  the  whole  face,  with  one  caress, 

Under  the  garden-bonnet, 
And,  passing  in,  I  saw  her  press 

Kiss  after  kiss  upon  it. 


Exeunt  omnes.     End  of  play. 

It  made  the  dull  room  brighter, 
The  Gladiator  almost  gay, 

And  e'en  "  The  Lancet "  lighter. 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


AN   AUTUMN    IDYLL. 

"  Sweet  Themmes  !  runne  softly,  till  /  end  my  song." 

SPENSER. 

LAWRENCE.  FRANK.  JACK. 

LAWRENCE. 

IT  ERE,  where  the  beech-nuts  drop  among  the 
grasses, 

Push  the  boat  in,  and  throw  the  rope 

ashore. 

Jack,  hand  me  out  the  claret  and  the  glasses  ; 
Here  let  us  sit.    We  landed  here  before. 

FRANK. 

Jack 's  undecided.     Say,  formose  puer, 
Bent  in  a  dream  above  the  "  water  wan," 

Shall  we  row  higher,  for  the  reeds  are  fewer, 
There  by  the  pollards,  where  you  see  the  swan  ? 

JACK. 
Hist  I    That 's  a  pike.     Look  —  nose  against  the 

river, 

Gaunt  as  a  wolf,  —  the  sly  old  privateer  I 
Enter  a  gudgeon.     Snap,  —  a  gulp,  a  shiver  ;  — 
Exit  the  gudgeon.     Let  us  anchor  here. 
90 


AN  AUTUMN  IDYLL. 

FRANK  (in  the  grass). 
Jove,  what  a  day  1    Black  Care  upon  the  crupper 

Nods  at  his  post,  and  slumbers  in  the  sun  ; 
Half  of  Theocritus,  with  a  touch  of  Tupper, 

Churns  in  my  head.     The  frenzy  has  begun  1 

LAWRENCE. 

Sing  to  us  then.     Damoetas  in  a  choker, 
Much  out  of  tune,  will  edify  the  rooks. 

FRANK. 

Sing  you  again.     So  musical  a  croaker 
Surely  will  draw  the  fish  upon  the  hooks. 

JACK. 
Sing  while  you   may.     The  beard   of  manhood 

still  is 

Faint  on  your  cheeks,  but  I,  alas  1  am  old. 
Doubtless  you  yet  believe  in  Amaryllis  ;  — 
Sing  me  of  Her,  whose  name  may  not  be  told. 

FRANK. 

Listen,  O  Thames  !     His  budding  beard  is  riper, 
Say  —  by  a  week.     Well,  Lawrence,  shall  w? 
sing? 

LAWRENCE. 

Yes,  if  you  will.     But  ere  I  play  the  piper, 
Let  him  declare  the  prize  he  has  to  bring. 
91 


WGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

JACK. 
Hear  then,  my  Shepherds.     Lo,  to  him  accounted 

First  in  the  song,  a  Pipe  I  will  impart  ;  — 
This,  my  Beloved,  marvellously  mounted, 

Amber  and  foam,  — a  miracle  of  art. 

LAWRENCE. 

Lordly  the  gift.     O  Muse  of  many  numbers, 
Grant  me  a  soft  alliterative  song  ! 

FRANK. 
Me  too,   O    Muse !      And  when   the   Umpire 

slumbers, 
Sting  him  with  gnats  a  summer  evening  long. 

LAWRENCE. 
Not  in  a  cot,  begarlanded  of  spiders, 

Not  where  the  brook  traditionally  "  purls,"  — 
No,  in  the  Row,  supreme  among  the  riders, 

Seek  I  the  gem,  —  the  paragon  of  girls. 

FRANK. 
Not  in  the  waste  of  column  and  of  coping, 

Not  in  the  sham  and  stucco  of  a  square,  — 
No,  on  a  June-lawn,  to  the  water  sloping, 
Stands  she  I  honour,  beautifully  fair. 
92 


AN  AUTUMN  IDYLL 

LAWRENCE. 
Dark-haired  is  mine,  with  splendid  tresses  plaited 

Back  from  the  brows,  imperially  curled  ; 
Calm  as  a  grand,  far-looking  Caryatid, 

Holding  the  roof  that  covers  in  a  world. 

FRANK. 

Dark-haired  is  mine,  with  breezy  ripples  swinging 
Loose  as  a  vine-branch  blowing  in  the  morn  ; 

Eyes  like  the  morning,  mouth  for  ever  singing, 
Blithe  as  a  bird  new  risen  from  the  corn. 

LAWRENCE. 
Best  is  the  song  with  the  music  interwoven : 

M'ine  's  a  musician,  — musical  at  heart,  — 
Throbs  to  the  gathered  grieving  of  Beethoven, 

Sways  to  the  light  coquetting  of  Mozart. 

FRANK. 

Best  ?   You  should  hear  mine  thrilling  out  a  ballad, 
Queen  at  a  pic-nic,  leader  of  the  glees, 

Not  too  divine  to  toss  you  up  a  salad, 
Great  in  Sir  Roger  danced  among  the  trees. 

LAWRENCE. 
Ah,  when  the  thick  night  flares  with  dropping 

torches, 

Ah,  when  the  crush-room  empties  of  the  swarm, 
93 


YIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

Pleasant  the  hand  that,  in  the  gusty  porches, 
Light  as  a  snow-flake,  settles  on  your  arm. 

FRANK. 

Better  the  twilight  and  the  cheery  chatting, — 
Better  the  dim,  forgotten  garden-seat, 

Where  one  may  lie,  and  watch  the  fingers  tatting, 
Lounging  with  Bran  or  Bevis  at  her  feet. 

LAWRENCE. 
All  worship  mine.     Her  purity  doth  hedge  her 

Round  with  so  delicate  divinity,  that  men, 
Stained  to  the  soul  with  money-bag  and  ledger, 

Bend  to  the  goddess,  manifest  again. 

FRANK. 
None  worship  mine.      But  some,   I  fancy,  love 

her,— 

Cynics  to  boot.     I  know  the  children  run, 
Seeing  her  come,  for  naught  that  I  discover, 
Save  that  she  brings  the  summer  and  the  sun. 

LAWRENCE. 
Mine  is  a  Lady,  beautiful  and  queenly, 

Crowned  with  a  sweet,  continual  control, 
Grandly  forbearing,  lifting  life  serenely 
E'en  to  her  own  nobility  of  soul. 
94 


j4N  AUTUMN  IDYLL 

FRANK. 

Mine  is  a  Woman,  kindly  beyond  measure, 
Fearless  in  praising,  faltering  in  blame  : 

Simply  devoted  to  other  people's  pleasure,  — 
Jack's  sister  Florence, —  now  you  know  her 
name. 

LAWRENCE. 

"  Jack's  sister  Florence!"  Never,  Francis,  never. 

Jack,  do  you  hear?    Why,  it  was  she  I  meant. 

She  like  the  country  1   Ah,  she 's  far  too  clever  — 

FRANK. 

There  you  are  wrong.     I  know  her  down  in 
Kent. 

LAWRENCE. 
You  '11  get  a  sunstroke,  standing  with  your  head 

bare. 
Sorry  to  differ.     Jack,  —  the  word  's  with  you. 

FRANK. 

How  is  it,  Umpire  ?    Though  the  motto  's  thread- 
bare, 
"  Cesium,  non  animum"  —  is,  I  take  it,  true. 

JACK. 

"  Souvent  femme  varie,"  as  a  rule,  is  truer ; 
Flattered,  I  'm  sure,  —  but  both  of  you  romance. 
95 


YIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

Happy  to  further  suit  of  either  wooer, 

Merely  observing —  you  have  n't  got  a  chance. 

LAWRENCE. 
Yes.     But  the  Pipe  — 

FRANK. 
The  Pipe  is  what  we  care  for, — 

JACK. 

Well,  in  this  case,  I  scarcely  need  explain, 
Judgment  of  mine  were  indiscreet,  and  therefore, — 
Peace  to  you  both.    The  Pipe  I  shall  retain. 


A  GARDEN  IDYLL. 

A   GARDEN    IDYLL. 
A  LADY.  A  POET. 

THE  LADY. 
C  IR  POET,  ere  you  crossed  the  lawn 

(If  it  was  wrong  to  watch  you,  pardon,) 
Behind  this  weeping  birch  withdrawn, 

I  watched  you  saunter  round  the  garden. 
I  saw  you  bend  beside  the  phlox, 

Pluck,  as  you  passed,  a  sprig  of  myrtle, 
Review  my  well-ranged  hollyhocks, 
Smile  at  the  fountain's  slender  spurtle  ; 

You  paused  beneath  the  cherry-tree, 

Where  my  marauder  thrush  was  singing, 
Peered  at  the  bee-hives  curiously, 

And  narrowly  escaped  a  stinging ; 
And  then  —  you  see  I  watched  —  you  passed 

Down  the  espalier  walk  that  reaches 
Out  to  the  western  wall,  and  last 

Dropped  on  the  seat  before  the  peaches. 

What  was  your  thought  ?    You  waited  long. 
Sublime  or  graceful,  —  grave,  —  satiric  ? 
VOL.  i.  — 7  97 


WGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

A  Morris  Greek-and-Gothic  song? 

A  tender  Tennysonian  lyric  ? 
Tell  me.     That  garden-seat  shall  be, 

As  long  as  speech  renown  disperses, 
Illustrious  as  the  spot  where  he  — 

The  gifted  Blank  —  composed  his  verses. 


THE  POET. 
Madam,  —  whose  uncensorious  eye 

Grows  gracious  over  certain  pages, 
Wherein  the  Jester's  maxims  lie, 

It  may  be,  thicker  than  the  Sage's,  — 
I  hear  but  to  obey,  and  could 

Mere  wish  of  mine  the  pleasure  do  you, 
Some  verse  as  whimsical  as  Hood,  — 

As  gay  as  Praed,  — should  answer  to  you. 


But,  though  the  common  voice  proclaims 

Our  only  serious  vocation 
Confined  to  giving  nothings  names, 

And  dreams  a  "  local  habitation  "  ; 
Believe  me  there  are  tuneless  days, 

When  neither  marble,  brass,  nor  vellum, 
Would  profit  much  by  any  lays 

That  haunt  the  poet's  cerebellum. 
98 


A   GARDEN  IDYLL, 

More  empty  things,  I  fear,  than  rhymes, 

More  idle  things  than  songs,  absorb  it; 
The  "  finely-frenzied  "  eye,  at  times, 

Reposes  mildly  in  its  orbit  ; 
And  —  painful  truth  —  at  times,  to  him, 

Whose  jog-trot  thought  is  nowise  restive, 
"  A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim" 

Is  absolutely  unsuggestive. 

The  fickle  Muse  1     As  ladies  will, 

She  sometimes  wearies  of  her  wooer ; 
A  goddess,  yet  a  woman  still, 

She  flies  the  more  that  we  pursue  her ; 
In  short,  with  worst  as  well  as  best, 

Five  months  in  six,  your  hapless  poet 
Is  just  as  prosy  as  the  rest, 

But  cannot  comfortably  show  it. 


You  thought,  no  doubt,  the  garden-scent 

Brings  back  some  brief-winged  bright  sensation 
Of  love  that  came  and  love  that  went,  — 

Some  fragrance  of  a  lost  flirtation, 
Born  when  the  cuckoo  changes  song, 

Dead  ere  the  apple's  red  is  on  it, 
That  should  have  been  an  epic  long, 

Yet  scarcely  served  to  fill  a  sonnet. 
99 


WGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

Or  else  you  thought,  —  the  murmuring  noon, 

He  turns  it  to  a  lyric  sweeter, 
With  birds  that  gossip  in  the  tune, 

And  windy  bough-swing  in  the  metre  ; 
Or  else  the  zigzag  fruit-tree  arms 

Recall  some  dream  of  harp-prest  bosoms, 
Round  singing  mouths,  and  chanted  charms, 

And  mediaeval  orchard  blossoms,  — 


Quite  &  la  mode.     Alas  for  prose  !  — 

My  vagrant  fancies  only  rambled 
Back  to  the  red-walled  Rectory  close, 

When  first  my  graceless  boyhood  gamboled, 
Climbed  on  the  dial,  teased  the  fish, 

And  chased  the  kitten  round  the  beeches, 
Till  widening  instincts  made  me  wish 

For  certain  slowly-ripening  peaches. 


Three  peaches.     Not  the  Graces  three 

Had  more  equality  of  beauty  : 
I  would  not  look,  yet  went  to  see  ; 

I  wrestled  with  Desire  and  Duty  ; 
I  felt  the  pangs  of  those  who  feel 

The  Laws  of  Property  beset  them  ; 
The  conflict  made  my  reason  reel, 

And,  half-abstractedly,  I  ate  them  ;  — 


A   GARDEN  IDYLL 

Or  Two  of  them.     Forthwith  Despair  — 

More  keen  that  one  of  these  was  rotten  — 
Moved  me  to  seek  some  forest  lair 

Where  I  might  hide  and  dwell  forgotten, 
Attired  in  skins,  by  berries  stained, 

Absolved  from  brushes  and  ablution  ;  — 
But,  ere  my  sylvan  haunt  was  gained, 

Fate  gave  me  up  to  execution. 


I  saw  it  all  but  now.     The  grin 

That  gnarled  old  Gardener  Sandy's  features  ; 
My  father,  scholar-like  and  thin, 

Unroused,  the  tenderest  of  creatures; 
I  saw  —  ah  me  —  I  saw  again 

My  dear  and  deprecating  mother  ; 
And  then,  remembering  the  cane, 

Regretted—  that  Id  left  the  Other. 


101 


YIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 
TU    QUOQUE. 

AN    IDYLL    IN   THE   CONSERVATORY. 

"  —  romprons-nous, 
Ou  ne  romprons-nous  pas  ?  " 

LE  DEPIT  AMOUREUX. 

NELLIE. 
T  F  I  were"  you,  when  ladies  at  the  play,  sir, 

Beckon  and  nod,  a  melodrama  through, 
I  would  not  turn  abstractedly  away,  sir, 
If  I  were  you  I 

FRANK. 
If  I  were  you,  when  persons  I  affected, 

Wait  for  three  hours  to  take  me  down  to  Kew, 
I  would,  at  least,  pretend  I  recollected, 

If  I  were  you  I 

NELLIE. 
If  I  were  you,  when  ladies  are  so  lavish, 

Sir,  as  to  keep  me  every  waltz  but  two, 
I  would  not  dance  with  odious  Miss  M'Tavish 

If  I  were  you  1 


TU  QUOQUE. 

FRANK. 

If  I  were  you,  who  vow  you  cannot  suffer 
Whiff  of  the  best,  — the  mildest  "honey-dew," 

I  would  not  dance  with  smoke-consuming  Puffer, 
If  I  were  you  I 

NELLIE. 

If  I  were  you,  I  would  not,  sir,  be  bitter, 
Even  to  write  the  "  Cynical  Review"  ;  — 

FRANK. 

No,  I  should  doubtless  find  flirtation  fitter, 
If  I  were  you  1 

NELLIE. 
Really  1  You  would  ?  Why,  Frank,  you  're  quite 

delightful,  — 

Hot  as  Othello,  and  as  black  of  hue  ; 
Borrow  my  fan.     I  would  not  look  so  frightful, 
If  I  were  you  1 

FRANK. 
"  It  is  the  cause."     I  mean  your  chaperon  is 

Bringing  some  well-curled  juvenile.     Adieu  1 
/  shall  retire.     I  'd  spare  that  poor  Adonis, 

If  I  were  you  1 

103 


yiGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

NELLIE. 
Go,  if  you  will.    At  once  1    And  by  express,  sir  1 

Where  shall  it  be  ?    To  China—  or  Peru  ? 
Go.     I  should  leave  inquirers  my  address,  sir, 

If  I  were  you  I 

FRANK. 

No,  —  I  remain.     To  stay  and  fight  a  duel 
Seems,  on  the  whole,  the  proper  thing  to  do  — 

Ah,  you  are  strong,  —  I  would  not  then  be  cruel, 
If  I  were  you  I 

NELLIE. 
One  does  not  like  one's  feelings  to  be  doubted,  — 

FRANK. 

One  does  not  like  one's  friends  to  misconstrue, — 

NELLIE. 
If  I  confess  that  I  a  wee-bit  pouted  ?  — 

FRANK. 
I  should  admit  that  I  was  piqut,  too. 

NELLIE. 

Ask  me  to  dance.     I  'd  say  no  more  about  it, 
If  I  were  you  1 

[Waltz  —  Exeunt. 
104 


A  DIALOGUE  FROM  PLATO. 


A   DIALOGUE   FROM    PLATO. 

"  Le  temps  le  mieux  employe  est  celui  qu'on  perd." 

CLAUDE  TILLIER. 

T  'D  "  read  "  three  hours.     Both  notes  and  text 

Were  fast  a  mist  becoming  ; 
In  bounced  a  vagrant  bee,  perplexed, 
And  filled  the  room  with  humming, 


Then  out.     The  casement's  leafage  sways, 

And,  parted  light,  discloses 
Miss  Di.,  with  hat  and  book,  — a  maze 

Of  muslin  mixed  with  roses. 


"  You  Ve  reading  Greek  ? "   "  I  am  —  and  you  ? ' 

"  O,  mine  's  a  mere  romancer  I  " 
"  So  Plato  is."     "  Then  read  him  —  do  ; 

And  I  '11  read  mine  in  answer." 


I  read.     "  My  Plato  (Plato,  too,— 
That  wisdom  thus  should  harden  !) 

Declares  '  blue  eyes  look  doubly  blue 
Beneath  a  Dolly  Varden.' " 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


She  smiled.     "  My  book  in  turn  avers 
(No  author's  name  is  stated) 

That  sometimes  those  Philosophers 
Are  sadly  mis-translated." 


"  But  hear,  —  the  next 's  in  stronger  style 

The  Cynic  School  asserted 
That  two  red  lips  which  part  and  smile 

May  not  be  controverted  !  " 


She  smiled  once  more  —  "  My  book,  I  find, 
Observes  some  modern  doctors 

Would  make  the  Cynics  out  a  kind 
Of  album-verse  concoctors." 


Then  I—  "  Why  not?   *  Ephesian  law, 
No  less  than  time's  tradition, 

Enjoined  fair  speech  on  all  who  saw 
DIANA'S  apparition.' " 


She  blushed  — this  time.     **  If  Plato's  page 

No  wiser  precept  teaches, 
Then  I  'd  renounce  that  doubtful  sage, 

And  walk  to  Burnham-beeches." 
1 06 


A  DIALOGUE  FROM  PLATO. 

"  Agreed,"  I  said.     "  For  Socrates 

(I  find  he  too  is  talking) 
Thinks  Learning  can't  remain  at  ease 

While  Beauty  goes  a-walking." 


She  read  no  more.     I  leapt  the  sill  : 
The  sequel's  scarce  essential  — 

Nay,  more  than  this,  I  hold  it  still 
Profoundly  confidential. 


WGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


THE   ROMAUNT  OF   THE   ROSE. 

pOOR  Rose  1  I  lift  you  from  the  street  - 

Far  better  I  should  own  you, 
Than  you  should  lie  for  random  feet, 
Where  careless  hands  have  thrown  you  I 

Poor  pinky  petals,  crushed  and  torn  1 
Did  heartless  Mayfair  use  you, 

Then  cast  you  forth  to  lie  forlorn, 
For  chariot  wheels  to  bruise  you  ? 

I  saw  you  last  in  Edith's  hair. 

Rose,  you  would  scarce  discover 
That  I  she  passed  upon  the  stair 

Was  Edith's  favoured  lover, 

A  month  —  "  a  little  month  " — ago  — 

O  theme  for  moral  writer  !  — 
Twixt  you  and  me,  my  Rose,  you  know, 

She  might  have  been  politer  ; 


But  let  that  pass.     She  gave  you  then  — 
Behind  the  oleander  — 
1 08 


THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  ROSE. 

To  one,  perhaps,  of  all  the  men, 
Who  best  could  understand  her,  — 


Cyril  that,  duly  flattered,  took, 

As  only  Cyril 's  able, 
With  just  the  same  Arcadian  look 

He  used,  last  night,  for  Mabel ; 

Then,  having  waltzed  till  every  star 
Had  paled  away  in  morning, 

Lit  up  his  cynical  cigar, 
And  tossed  you  downward,  scorning. 

Kismet,  my  Rose  1  Revenge  is  sweet,  • 
She  made  my  heart-strings  quiver  ; 

And  yet  —  You  sha'n't  lie  in  the  street, 
I  '11  drop  you  in  the  River. 


109 


WGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


LOVE   IN   WINTER. 

"D  ETWEEN  the  berried  holly-bush 

The  Blackbird  whistled  to  the  Thrush : 
"  Which  way  did  bright-eyed  Bella  go? 
Look,  Speckle-breast,  across  the  snow,  — 
Are  those  her  dainty  tracks  I  see, 
That  wind  beside  the  shrubbery  ?" 

The  Throstle  pecked  the  berries  still. 
"  No  need  for  looking,  Yellow-bill  ; 
Young  Frank  was  there  an  hour  ago, 
Half  frozen,  waiting  in  the  snow  ; 
His  callow  beard  was  white  with  rime,  — 
'Tchuck,  —  'tis  a  merry  pairing-time  1 " 

"  What  would  you  ?  "  twittered  in  the  Wren  ; 
"  These  are  the  reckless  ways  of  men. 
I  watched  them  bill  and  coo  as  though 
They  thought  the  sign  of  Spring  was  snow ; 
If  men  but  timed  their  loves  as  we, 
'Twould  save  this  inconsistency." 

"  Nay,  Gossip,"  chirped  the  Robin,  "  nay; 
I  like  their  unreflective  way. 


LOVE  IN   WINTER. 


Besides,  I  heard  enough  to  show 
Their  love  is  proof  against  the  snow  :  — 
'  Why  wait/  he  said,  '  why  wait  for  May, 
"When  love  can  warm  a  winter's  day  ? ' " 


in 


WGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

POT-POURRI. 
"  Sijeuncsse  savait  ?  —  " 

T    PLUNGE  my  hand  among  the  leaves : 
(An  alien  touch  but  dust  perceives, 
Nought  else  supposes ;) 
For  me  those  fragrant  ruins  raise 
Clear  memory  of  the  vanished  days 
When  they  were  roses. 

"  If  youth  but  knew  1 "     Ah,  "  if,"  in  truth?  — 
I  can  recall  with  what  gay  youth, 

To  what  light  chorus, 
Unsobered  yet  by  time  or  change,   " 
We  roamed  the  many-gabled  Grange, 

All  life  before  us  ; 

Braved  the  old  clock-tower's  dust  and  damp 
To  catch  the  dim  Arthurian  camp 

In  misty  distance; 

Peered  at  the  still-room's  sacred  stores, 
Or  rapped  at  walls  for  sliding  doors 

Of  feigned  existence. 


POT-POURRI. 

What  need  had  we  for  thoughts  or  cares  1 
The  hot  sun  parched  the  old  parterres 

And  "  flowerful  closes  "  ; 
We  roused  the  rooks  with  rounds  and  glees, 
Played  hide-and-seek  behind  the  trees, — 

Then  plucked  these  roses. 

Louise  was  one  —  light,  glib  Louise, 
So  freshly  freed  from  school  decrees 

You  scarce  could  stop  her ; 
And  Bell,  the  Beauty,  unsurprised 
At  fallen  locks  that  scandalized 

Our  dear  "  Miss  Proper:  "  — 

Shy  Ruth,  all  heart  and  tenderness, 
Who  wept  —  like  Chaucer's  Prioress, 

When  Dash  was  smitten  ; 
Who  blushed  before  the  mildest  men, 
Yet  waxed  a  very  Corday  when 

You  teased  her  kitten. 

I  loved  them  all.     Bell  first  and  best ; 
Louise  the  next —  for  days  of  jest 

Or  madcap  masking ; 

And  Ruth,  !  thought,  —  why,  failing  these, 
When  my  High-Mightiness  should  please, 

She  'd  come  for  asking. 


yiGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

Louise  was  grave  when  last  we  met ; 
Bell's  beauty,  like  a  sun,  has  set ; 

And  Ruth,  Heaven  bless  her, 
Ruth  that  I  wooed,  —  and  wooed  in  vain, 
Has  gone  where  neither  grief  nor  pain 

Can  now  distress  her. 


114 


DOROTHY. 


DOROTHY. 

A  REVERIE  SUGGESTED  BY  THE  NAME  UPON  A  PANE. 

O  HE  then  must  once  have  looked,  as  I 

Look  now,  across  the  level  rye,  — 
Past  Church  and  Manor-house,  and  seen. 
As  now  I  see,  the  village  green, 
The  bridge,  and  Walton's  river  —  she 
Whose  old-world  name  was  "  Dorothy." 

The  swallows  must  have  twittered,  too, 
Above  her  head  ;  the  roses  blew 
Below,  no  doubt,  —  and,  sure,  the  South 
Crept  up  the  wall  and  kis.sed  her  mouth,  — 
That  wistful  mouth,  which  comes  to  me 
Linked  with  her  name  of  Dorothy. 

What  was  she  like  ?     I  picture  her 
Unmeet  for  uncouth  worshipper  ;  — 
Soft,  —  pensive,  —  far  too  subtly  graced 
To  suit  the  blunt  bucolic  taste, 
Whose  crude  perception  could  but  see 
"  Ma'am  Fine-airs  "  in  "  Miss  Dorothy.'* 
"5 


yiGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

How  not  ?    She  loved,  maybe,  perfume, 
Soft  textures,  lace,  a  half-lit  room  ;  — 
Perchance  too  candidly  preferred 
"  Clarissa  "  to  a  gossip's  word  ;  — 
And,  for  the  rest,  would  seem  to  be 
Or  proud,  or  dull  —  this  Dorothy. 

Poor  child  1  —  with  heart  the  down-lined  nest 
Of  warmest  instincts  unconfest, 
Soft,  callow  things  that  vaguely  felt 
The  breeze  caress,  the  sunlight  melt, 
But  yet,  by  some  obscure  decree 
Unwinged  from  birth  ;  —  poor  Dorothy  I 

Not  less  I  dream  her  mute  desire 
To  acred  churl  and  booby  squire, 
Now  pale,  with  timorous  eyes  that  filled 
At  "  twice-told  tales"  of  foxes  killed  ;  — 
Now  trembling  when  slow  tongues  grew  free 
'Twixt  sport,  and  Port  — and  Dorothy  I 

Twas  then  she'd  seek  this  nook,  and  find 
Its  evening  landscape  balmy-kind  ; 
And  here,  where  still  her  gentle  name 
Lives  on  the  old  green  glass,  would  frame 
Fond  dreams  of  unfound  harmony 
'Twixt  heart  and  heart.     Poor  Dorothy  1 


DOROTHY. 

L'ENVOI. 

These  last  I  spoke.    Then  Florence  said, 
Below  me,  —  "Dreams?   Delusions,  Fred  1 
Next,  with  a  pause, —  she  bent  the  while 
Over  a  rose,  with  roguish  smile  — 
"  But  how  disgusted,  Sir,  you  '11  be 
To  hear  /  scrawled  that  '  Dorothy.'  " 


117 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


AVICE. 

1  On  strait  tentl  de  lui  dire,  Bonjour,  Mademoiselle  la  Berge- 
ronnette"  —  VICTOR  HUGO. 

'"THOUGH  the  voice  of  modern  schools 
Has  demurred, 

By  the  dreamy  Asian  creed 

Tis  averred, 

That  the  souls  of  men,  released 

From  their  bodies  when  deceased, 

Sometimes  enter  in  a  beast,  — 
Or  a  bird. 

I  have  watched  you  long,  Avice,  — 
Watched  you  so, 

I  have  found  your  secret  out ; 
And  I  know 

That  the  restless  ribboned  things, 

Where  your  slope  of  shoulder  springs, 

Are  but  undeveloped  wings 

That  will  grow. 


When  you  enter  in  a  room, 

It  is  stirred 


AVICE. 

With  the  wayward,  flashing  flight 

Of  a  bird  ; 

And  you  speak  —  and  bring  with  you 
Leaf  and  sun-ray,  bud  and  blue, 
And  the  wind-breath  and  the  dew, 
At  a  word. 

When  you  called  to  me  my  name, 

Then  again 
When  I  heard  your  single  cry 

In  the  lane, 

All  the  sound  was  as  the  "  sweet" 
Which  the  birds  to  birds  repeat 
In  their  thank-song  to  the  heat 
After  rain. 

When  you  sang  the  Schwalbenlied, 

'Twas  absurd,  — 

But  it  seemed  no  human  note 

That  I  heard ; 

For  your  strain  had  all  the  trills, 

All  the  little  shakes  and  stills, 

Of  the  over-song  that  rills 

From  a  bird. 

You  have  just  their  eager,  quick 

"  Airs  de  Me" 
119 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

All  their  flush  and  fever-heat 

When  elate ; 

Every  bird-like  nod  and  beck, 
And  a  bird's  own  curve  of  neck 
When  she  gives  a  little  peck 

To  her  mate. 

When  you  left  me,  only  now, 

In  that  furred, 
Puffed,  and  feathered  Polish  dress, 

I  was  spurred 

Just  to  catch  you,  O  my  Sweet, 
By  the  bodice  trim  and  neat,  — 
Just  to  feel  your  heart  a-beat, 
Like  a  bird. 

Yet,  alas  I     Love's  light  you  deign 
But  to  wear 

As  the  dew  upon  your  plumes, 

And  you  care 

Not  a  whit  for  rest  or  hush  ; 

But  the  leaves,  the  lyric  gush, 

And  the  wing-power,  and  the  rush 
Of  the  air. 

So  I  dare  not  woo  you,  Sweet, 
For  a  day, 


AVICE. 

Lest  I  lose  you  in  a  flash, 

As  I  may ; 

Did  I  tell  you  tender  things, 

You  would  shake  your  sudden  wings  ; 

You  would  start  from  him  who  sings, 
And  away. 


13  T 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


THE   LOVE-LETTER. 

u  y'ai  vu  Its  mceurs  de  man  terns,  etfai  piMii  cette  lettre." 
LA  NOUVELLE  HELOISE. 

T  F  this  should  fail,  why  then  I  scarcely  know 
What  could  succeed.    Here 's  brilliancy  (and 

banter), 
Byron  ad  lib.,  a  chapter  of  Rousseau  ;  — 

If  this  should  fail,  then  tempora  mutantur ; 
Style  1s  out  of  date,  and  love,  as  a  profession, 
Acquires  no  aid  from  beauty  of  expression. 

"  The  men  who  think  as  I,  I  fear,  are  few," 
(Cynics  would  say  'twere  well   if  they  were 
fewer) ; 

"  I  am  not  what  I  seem," —  (indeed,  'tis  true  ; 
Though,  as  a  sentiment,  it  might  be  newer)  ; 

"  Mine  is  a  soul  whose  deeper  feelings  lie 

More  deep  than  words"  —  (as  these  exemplify). 

"  I  will  not  say  when  first  your  beauty's  sun 
Illumed  my  life,"  —  (it  needs  imagination)  ; 

"  For  me  to  see  you  and  to  love  were  one,"  — 
(This  will  account  for  some  precipitation)  ; 


THE  LOVE-LETTER. 

"  Let  it  suffice  that  worship  more  devoted 
Ne'er  throbbed,"  el  ccelera.    The  rest  is  quoted. 

"  If  Love  can  look  with  all-prophetic  eye,"  — 
(Ah,  if  he  could,  how  many  would  be  single  1) 

"  If  truly  spirit  unto  spirit  cry,"  — 

(The  ears  of  some  most  terribly  must  tingle  1) 

"Then  I  have  dreamed  you  will  not  turn  your 
face." 

This  next,  I  think,  is  more  than  commonplace. 

"  Why  should  we  speak,  if  Love,  interpreting, 
Forestall  the  speech  with  favour  found  before  1 

Why  should  we  plead  ?  —  it  were  an  idle  thing, 
If  Love  himself  be  Love's  ambassador  1 " 

Blot,  as  I  live  1   Shall  we  erase  it  ?   No  ;  — 

Twill  show  we  write  currente  calamo. 

"  My  fate,  — my  fortune,  I  commit  to  you," — 
(In  point  of  fact,  the  latter  's  not  extensive)  ; 
"Without    you    I   am    poor    indeed," — (strike 

through, 

Tis  true  but  crude  —  'twould  make  her  appre- 
hensive) ; 

"  My  life  is  yours —  I  lay  it  at  your  feet," 
(Having  no  choice  but  Hymen  or  the  Fleet). 
123 


Y1GNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

"  Give  me  the  right  to  stand  within  the  shrine, 
Where  never  yet  my  faltering  feet  intruded  ; 
Give  me  the  right  to  call  you  wholly  mine,"  — 
(That  is,    Consols  and   Three-per-Cents   in- 
cluded) ; 
"  To   guard   your   rest   from   every    care    that 

cankers,  — 

To    keep    your    life," — (and   balance    at    your 
banker's). 

"  Compel  me  not  to  long  for  your  reply  ; 
Suspense  makes  havoc  with  the  mind  "  —  (and 

muscles)  ; 
"Winged    Hope  takes  flight,"  —  (which  means 

that  I  must  fly, 

Default  of  funds,  to  Paris  or  to  Brussels)  ; 
"  I  cannot  wait !    My  own,  my  queen  —  Priscilla  1 
Write  by  return."     And  now  for  a  Manilla  ! 

"  Miss  Blank,"  at  "  Blank."    Jemima,  let  it  go  ; 

And  I,  meanwhile,  will  idle  with  "  Sir  Walter  ;  " 

Stay,  let  me  keep  the  first  rough  copy,  though  — 

Twill  serve  again.      There  's  but  the  name  to 

alter, 

And  Love,  —  that  starves,  —  must  knock  at  every 
portal, 

In  formd  pauperis.     We  are  but  mortal ! 
124 


THE  MISOGYNIST, 
THE   MISOGYNIST. 

"  //  itait  unjeune  homme  fun  bien  beau  passt." 

\\  7 HEN  first  he  sought  our  haunts,  he  wore 

His  locks  in  Hamlet-style; 
His  brow  with  thought  was  "  sicklied  o'er,"  — 

We  rarely  saw  him  smile  ; 
And,  e'en  when  none  were  looking  on, 
His  air  was  always  woe-begone. 

He  kept,  I  think,  his  bosom  bare 

To  imitate  Jean  Paul ; 
His  solitary  topics  were 

^Esthetics,  Fate,  and  Soul ;  — 
Although  at  times,  but  not  for  long, 
He  bowed  his  Intellect  to  song. 

He  served,  he  said,  a  Muse  of  Tears : 

I  know  his  verses  breathed 
A  fine  funereal  air  of  biers, 

And  objects  cypress-wreathed  ;  — 
Indeed,  his  tried  acquaintance  fled 
An  ode  he  named  "The  Sheeted  Dead." 
125 


YIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

In  these  light  moods,  I  call  to  mind, 

He  darkly  would  allude 
To  some  dread  sorrow  undefined,  — 

Some  passion  unsubdued  ; 
Then  break  into  a  ghastly  laugh, 
And  talk  of  Keats  his  epitaph. 

He  railed  at  women's  faith  as  Cant ; 

We  thought  him  grandest  when 
He  named  them  Siren-shapes  that  "  chant 

On  blanching  bones  of  Men  ;  "  — 
Alas,  not  e'en  the  great  go  free 
From  that  insidious  minstrelsy  1 

His  lot,  he  oft  would  gravely  urge, 

Lay  on  a  lone  Rock  where 
Around  Time-beaten  bases  surge 

The  Billows  of  Despair. 
We  dreamed  it  true.    We  never  knew 
What  gentler  ears  he  told  it  to. 

We,  bound  with  him  in  common  care, 

One-minded,  celibate, 
Resolved  to  Thought  and  Diet  spare 

Our  lives  to  dedicate  ;  — 
We,  truly,  in  no  common  sense, 
Deserved  his  closest  confidence  ! 
126 


THE  MISOGYNIST. 

But  soon,  and  yet,  though  soon,  too  late, 
We,  sorrowing,  sighed  to  find 

A  gradual  softness  enervate 
That  all  superior  mind, 

Until,  —  in  full  assembly  met, 

He  dared  to  speak  of  Etiquette. 

The  verse  that  we  severe  had  known, 

Assumed  a  wanton  air,  — 
A  fond  effeminate  monotone 

Of  eyebrows,  lips,  and  hair ; 
Not  rjOos  stirred  him  now  or  i/ous, 
He  read  "  The  Angel  in  the  House  1 " 

Nay  worse.     He,  once  sublime  to  chaff, 

Grew  whimsically  sore 
If  we  but  named  a  photograph 

We  found  him  simpering  o'er  ; 
Or  told  how  in  his  chambers  lurked 
A  watch-guard  intricately  worked. 

Then  worse  again.     He  tried  to  dress  ; 

He  trimmed  his  tragic  mane  ; 
Announced  at  length  (to  our  distress) 

He  had  not  "  lived  in  vain  "  ;  — 
Thenceforth  his  one  prevailing  mood 

Became  a  base  beatitude. 
127 


YIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

And  O  Jean  Paul,  and  Fate,  and  Soul! 

We  met  him  last,  grown  stout, 
His  throat  with  wedlock's  triple  roll, 

"All  wool,"  —  enwound  about ; 
His  very  hat  had  changed  its  brim  ;  — 
Our  course  was  clear, — WE  BANISHED  HIM  I 


128 


A  VIRTUOSO. 


A   VIRTUOSO. 

"DE  seated,  pray.     "  A  grave  appeal  "? 
The  sufferers  by  the  war,  of  course  ; 
Ah,  what  a  sight  for  us  who  feel,  — 

This  monstrous  mdlodrame  of  Force  1 
We,  Sir,  we  connoisseurs,  should  know, 

On  whom  its  heaviest  burden  falls ; 
Collections  shattered  at  a  blow, 

Museums  turned  to  hospitals  I 


"  And  worse,"  you  say  ;  "  the  wide  distress  1 

Alas,  'tis  true  distress  exists, 
Though,  let  me  add,  our  worthy  Press 

Have  no  mean  skill  as  colourists;  — 
Speaking  of  colour,  next  your  seat 

There  hangs  a  sketch  from  Vernet's  hand ; 
Some  Moscow  fancy,  incomplete, 

Yet  not  indifferently  planned  ; 

Note  specially  the  gray  old  Guard, 
Who  tears  his  tattered  coat  to  wrap 

A  closer  bandage  round  the  scarred 
And  frozen  comrade  in  his  lap ;  — 
VOL.  i.  — 9  129 


WGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

But,  as  regards  the  present  war,  — 

Now  don't  you  think  our  pride  of  pence 

Goes  —  may  I  say  it?  —  somewhat  far 
For  objects  of  benevolence  ? 

You  hesitate.     For  my  part,  I  — 

Though  ranking  Paris  next  to  Rome, 
jEsthetically  —  still  reply 

That  "  Charity  begins  at  Home." 
The  words  remind  me.     Did  you  catch 

My  so-named  "  Hunt "  ?    The  girl 's  a  gem  ; 
And  look  how  those  lean  rascals  snatch 

The  pile  of  scraps  she  brings  to  them  1 

"  But  your  appeal 's  for  home,"  —  you  say,  — 

For  home,  and  English  poor  1     Indeed  1 
I  thought  Philanthropy  to-day 

Was  blind  to  mere  domestic  need  — 
However  sore  —  Yet  though  one  grants 

That  home  should  have  the  foremost  claims, 
At  least  these  Continental  wants 

Assume  intelligible  names  ; 

While  here  with  us —  Ah  1  who  could  hope 

To  verify  the  varied  pleas, 
Or  from  his  private  means  to  cope 

With  all  our  shrill  necessities  1 
130 


A   VIRTUOSO. 

Impossible  !    One  might  as  well 
Attempt  comparison  of  creeds  ; 

Or  fill  that  huge  Malayan  shell 

With  these  half-dozen  Indian  beads. 

Moreover,  add  that  every  one 

So  well  exalts  his  pet  distress, 
'Tis —  Give  to  all,  or  give  to  none, 

If  you  'd  avoid  invidiousness. 
Your  case,  I  feel,  is  sad  as  A/s, 

The  same  applies  to  B.'s  and  C.'s  ; 
By  my  selection  I  should  raise 

An  alphabet  of  rivalries  ; 

And  life  is  short,  —  I  see  you  look 

At  yonder  dish,  a  priceless  bit ; 
You  '11  find  it  etched  in  Jacquemart's  book, 

They  say  that  Raphael  painted  it ;  — 
And  life  is  short,  you  understand ; 

So,  if  I  only  hold  you  out 
An  open  though  an  empty  hand, 

Why,  you  '11  forgive  me,  I  've  no  doubt. 

Nay,  do  not  rise.     You  seem  amused  ; 

One  can  but  be  consistent,  Sir  1 
'Twas  on  these  grounds  I  just  refused 

Some  gushing  lady-almoner, — 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


Believe  me,  on  these  very  grounds. 

Good-bye,  then.     Ah,  a  rarity  1 
That  cost  me  quite  three  hundred  pounds,- 

That  Durer  figure,  —  "  Charity." 


132 


LAISSEZ  FA1RE, 


LAISSEZ    FAIRE. 

"  Prophete  rechts,  Prophete  links, 
Das  Weltkind  in  der  Mitten." 

GOETHE'S  Dini  zu  Coblenz. 

HTO  left,  here's  B.,  half-Communist, 

Who  talks  a  chastened  treason, 
And  C-,  a  something-else  in  "1st," 
Harangues,  to  right,  on  Reason. 

B.,  from  his  "  tribune,"  fulminates 
At  Throne  and  Constitution, 

Nay — with  the  walnuts  —  advocates 
Reform  by  revolution  , 

While  C.'s  peculiar  coterie 

Have  now  in  full  rehearsal 
Some  patent  new  Philosophy 

To  make  doubt  universal. 


And  yet  — Why  not  ?     If  zealots  burn, 

Their  zeal  has  not  affected 
My  taste  for  salmon  and  Sauterne, 

Or  I  might  have  objected  :  — 
133 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

Friend  B.,  the  argument  you  choose 

Has  been  by  France  refuted  ; 
And  C.,  mon  cher,  your  novel  views 

Are  just  Tom  Paine,  diluted  ; 

There 's  but  one  creed,  —  that 's  Laisse^  faire, 

Behold  its  mild  apostle  I 
My  dear,  declamatory  pair, 

Although  you  shout  and  jostle, 

Not  your  ephemeral  hands,  nor  mine, 
Time's  Gordian  knots  shall  sunder,  — 

WILL  laid  three  casks  of  this  old  wine  : 
Who'll  drink  the  last,  I  wonder  ? 


134 


TO  Q.  H.  F. 


TO    Q.    H.   F. 

SUGGESTED   BY   A   CHAPTER    IN    SIR   THEODORE 

MARTIN'S  "  HORACE." 
("ANCIENT  CLASSICS  FOR  ENGLISH  READERS.") 

"TJORATIUS  FLACCUS,  B.C.  8," 

There 's  not  a  doubt  about  the  date,— 

You  're  dead  and  buried  : 
As  you  observed,  the  seasons  roll ; 
And  'cross  the  Styx  full  many  a  soul 

Has  Charon  ferried, 

Since,  mourned  of  men  and  Muses  nine, 
They  laid  you  on  the  Esquiline. 


And  that  was  centuries  ago  1 

You  'd  think  we  'd  learned  enough,  I  know, 

To  help  refine  us, 

Since  last  you  trod  the  Sacred  Street, 
And  tacked  from  mortal  fear  to  meet 

The  bore  Crispinus ; 
Or,  by  your  cold  Digentia,  set 
The  web  of  winter  birding-net. 
'35 


I/IGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

Ours  is  so  far-advanced  an  age  1 
Sensation  tales,  a  classic  stage, 

Commodious  villas  I 
We  boast  high  art,  an  Albert  Hall, 
Australian  meats,  and  men  who  call 

Their  sires  gorillas  1 
We  have  a  thousand  things,  you  see, 
Not  dreamt  in  your  philosophy. 


And  yet,  how  strange  !     Our  "world,"  to-day, 
Tried  in  the  scale,  would  scarce  outweigh 

Your  Roman  cronies ; 
Walk  In  the  Park  —  you  '11  seldom  fail 
To  find  a  Sybaris  on  the  rail 

By  Lydia's  ponies, 

Or  hap  on  Barrus,  wigged  and  stayed, 
Ogling  some  unsuspecting  maid. 


The  great  Gargilius,  then,  behold  I 
His  "  long-bow  "  hunting  tales  of  old 

Are  now  but  duller ; 
Fair  Neobule  too  I     Is  not 
One  Hebrus  here  —  from  Aldershot? 

Aha,  you  colour ! 

Be  wise.     There  old  Canidia  sits  ; 
No  doubt  she  's  tearing  you  to  bits. 
'36 


TO  Q.   H.  F. 

And  look,  dyspeptic,  brave,  and  kind, 
Comes  dear  Maecenas,  half  behind 

Terentia's  skirting ; 

Here  's  Pyrrha,  "  golden-haired  "  at  will ; 
Prig  Damasippus,  preaching  still ; 

Asterie  flirting,  — 

Radiant,  of  course.     We  '11  make  her  black, 
Ask  her  when  Gyges'  ship  comes  back. 

So  with  the  rest.     Who  will  may  trace 
Behind  the  new  each  elder  face 

Defined  as  clearly ; 

Science  proceeds,  and  man  stands  still ; 
Our  "  world  "  to-day  's  as  good  or  ill,  — 

As  cultured  (nearly), 
As  yours  was,  Horace  !     You  alone, 
Unmatched,  unmet,  we  have  not  known. 


137 


YIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


TO   "LYDIA    LANGUISH." 

"  //  me  faut  des  Emotions." 

BLANCHE  AMORY. 

'X/'OU  ask  me,  Lydia,  "whether  I, 
If  you  refuse  my  suit,  shall  die." 

(Now  pray  don't  let  this  hurt  you  !) 
Although  the  time  be  out  of  joint, 
I  should  not  think  a  bodkin's  point 

The  sole  resource  of  virtue  ; 
Nor  shall  I,  though  your  mood  endure, 
Attempt  a  final  Water-cure 

Except  against  my  wishes  ; 
For  I  respectfully  decline 
To  dignify  the  Serpentine, 

And  make  hors-d'oeuvres  for  fishes ; 
But,  if  you  ask  me  whether  I 

Composedly  can  go, 
Without  a  look,  without  a  sigh, 

Why,  then  I  answer — No. 

"  You  are  assured,"  you  sadly  say 
(If  in  this  most  considerate  way 
To  treat  ny  suit  your  will  is), 
That  I  shall  "  quickly  find  as  fair 
138 


TO  "LYDIA  LANGUISH." 

Some  new  Neaera's  tangled  hair  — 

Some  easier  Amaryllis." 
I  cannot  promise  to  be  cold 
If  smiles  are  kind  as  yours  of  old 

On  lips  of  later  beauties  ; 
Nor  can  I,  if  I  would,  forget 
The  homage  that  is  Nature's  debt, 

While  man  has  social  duties  ; 
But,  if  you  ask  shall  I  prefer 

To  you  I  honour  so, 
A  somewhat  visionary  Her,   . 

I  answer  truly —  No. 

You  fear,  you  frankly  add,  "  to  find 
In  me  too  late  the  altered  mind 

That  altering  Time  estranges." 
To  this  I  make  response  that  we 
(As  physiologists  agree) 

Must  have  septennial  changes; 
This  is  a  thing  beyond  control, 
And  it  were  best  upon  the  whole 

To  try  and  find  out  whether 
We  could  not,  by  some  means,  arrange 
This  not-to-be-avoided  change 

So  as  to  change  together: 
But,  had  you  asked  me  to  allow 

That  you  could  ever  grow 
'39 


yiGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

Less  amiable  than  you  are  now,  — 

Emphatically —  No. 


But — to  be  serious  —  if  you  care 
To  know  how  I  shall  really  bear 

This  much-discussed  rejection, 
I  answer  you.     As  feeling  men 
Behave,  in  best  romances,  when 

You  outrage  their  affection  ;  — 
With  that  gesticulatory  woe, 
By  which,  as  melodramas  show, 

Despair  is  indicated  ; 
Enforced  by  all  the  liquid  grief 
Which  hugest  pocket-handkerchief 

Has  ever  simulated  ; 
And  when,  arrived  so  far,  you  say 

In  tragic  accents  "Go," 
Then,  Lydia,  then  ...    I  still  shall  stay, 

And  firmly  answer  —  No. 


140 


A   GAGE  V AMOUR. 


A   GAGE    D'AMOUR. 
(HORACE,  HI.,  8.) 

"  Martiis  calebs  quid  agam  ICaCendis 
miraris  ?  " 

/CHARLES, — for  it  seems  you  wish  to  know, — 

You  wonder  what  could  scare  me  so, 
And  why,  in  this  long-locked  bureau, 

With  trembling  fingers, — 
With  tragic  air,  I  now  replace 
This  ancient  web  of  yellow  lace, 
Among  whose  faded  folds  the  trace 

Of  perfume  lingers. 


Friend  of  my  youth,  severe  as  true, 
I  guess  the  train  your  thoughts  pursue ; 
But  this  my  state  is  nowise  due 

To  indigestion  j 
I  had  forgotten  it  was  there, 
A  scarf  that  Some-one  used  to  wear. 
Hinc  illce  /acrimo?,  —  so  spare 

Your  cynic  question. 
141 


yiGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

Some-one  who  is  not  girlish  now, 

And  wed  long  since.    We  meet  and  bow  ; 

I  don't  suppose  our  broken  vow 

Affects  us  keenly; 
Yet,  trifling  though  my  act  appears, 
Your  Sternes  would  make  it  ground  for  tears ;  • 
One  can't  disturb  the  dust  of  years, 

And  smile  serenely. 

"  My  golden  locks  "  are  gray  and  chill, 
For  hers,  — let  them  be  sacred  still ; 
But  yet,  I  own,  a  boyish  thrill 

Went  dancing  through  me, 
Charles,  when  I  held  yon  yellow  lace  ; 
For,  from  its  dusty  hiding-place, 
Peeped  out  an  arch,  ingenuous  face 

That  beckoned  to  me. 


We  shut  our  heart  up,  now-a-days, 
Like  some  old  music-box  that  plays 
Unfashionable  airs  that  raise 
Derisive  pity ; 

Alas,  —  a  nothing  starts  the  spring  ; 
And  lo,  the  sentimental  thing 
At  once  commences  quavering 

Its  lover's  ditty. 
142 


A   GAGE  D 'AMOUR. 

Laugh,  if  you  like.     The  boy  in  me,  — 

The  boy  that  was,  —  revived  to  see 

The  fresh  young  smile  that  shone  when  she, 

Of  old,  was  tender. 

Once  more  we  trod  the  Golden  Way,  — 
That  mother  you  saw  yesterday, 
And  I,  whom  none  can  well  portray, 

As  young,  or  slender. 

She  twirled  the  flimsy  scarf  about 
Her  pretty  head,  and  stepping  out, 
Slipped  arm  in  mine,  with  half  a  pout 

Of  childish  pleasure. 

Where  we  were  bound  no  mortal  knows, 
For  then  you  plunged  in  Ireland's  woes, 
And  brought  me  blankly  back  to  prose 
And  Gladstone's  measure. 

Well,  well,  the  wisest  bend  to  Fate. 
My  brown  old  books  around  me  wait, 
My  pipe  still  holds,  unconfiscate, 

Its  wonted  station. 

Pass  me  the  wine.     To  Those  that  keep 
The  bachelor's  secluded  sleep 
Peaceful,  inviolate,  and  deep, 

I  pour  libation  I 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 
CUPID'S   ALLEY. 

A    MORALITY. 

O,  Love 's  but  a  dance, 

Where  Time  plays  the  fiddle  ! 
See  the  couples  advance,  — 
O,  Love 's  but  a  dance  ! 
A  whisper,  a  glance,  — 

"  Shall  we  twirl  down  the  middle  ?  ** 
O,  Love 's  but  a  dance, 

Where  Time  plays  the  fiddle  ! 

TT  runs  (so  saith  my  Chronicler) 

Across  a  smoky  City  ;  — 
A  Babel  filled  with  buzz  and  whirr, 

Huge,  gloomy,  black  and  gritty  ; 
Dark-louring  looks  the  hill-side  near, 

Dark-yawning  looks  the  valley,  — 
But  here  'tis  always  fresh  and  clear, 

For  here  —  is  "  Cupid's  Alley." 


And,  from  an  Arbour  cool  and  green 

With  aspect  down  the  middle, 
An  ancient  Fiddler,  gray  and  lean, 

Scrapes  on  an  ancient  riddle  ; 
144 


CUPID'S  ALLEY. 

Alert  he  seems,  but  aged  enow 

To  punt  the  Stygian  galley  ;  — 
With  wisp  of  forelock  on  his  brow, 

He  plays  —  in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 

All  day  he  plays,  —  a  single  tune  1  — 

But,  by  the  oddest  chances, 
Gavotte,  or  Brawl,  or  Rigadoon, 

It  suits  all  kinds  of  dances  ; 
My  Lord  may  walk  a  pas  de  Cour 

To  Jenny's  pas  de  Chalet;  — 
The  folks  who  ne'er  have  danced  before, 

Can  dance  —  in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 

And  here,  for  ages  yet  untold, 

Long,  long  before  my  ditty, 
Came  high  and  low,  and  young  and  old. 

From  out  the  crowded  City  ; 
And  still  to-day  they  come,  they  go, 

And  just  as.  fancies  tally, 
They  foot  it  quick,  they  foot  it  slow, 

All  day —  in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 

Strange  dance  1     Tis  free  to  Rank  and  Rags ; 

Here  no  distinction  flatters, 
Here  Riches  shakes  its  money-bags, 

And  Poverty  its  tatters  ; 

VOL.  i.— 10  145 


Y1GNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

Church,  Army,  Navy,  Physic,  Law;  — 
Maid,  Mistress,  Master,  Valet ; 

Long  locks,  gray  hairs,  bald  heads,  and  a',  • 
They  bob  —  in  "Cupid's  Alley." 

Strange  pairs  !     To  laughing,  fresh  Fifteen 

Here  capers  Prudence  thrifty  ; 
Here  Prodigal  leads  down  the  green 

A  blushing  Maid  of  fifty  ; 
Some  treat  it  as  a  serious  thing, 

And  some  but  shilly-shally  ; 
And  some  have  danced  without  the  ring 

(Ah  me  !)  —  in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 

And  sometimes  one  to  one  will  dance, 

And  think  of  one  behind  her ; 
And  one  by  one  will  stand,  perchance, 

Yet  look  all  ways  to  find  her ; 
Some  seek  a  partner  with  a  sigh, 

Some  win  him  with  a  sally  ; 
And  some,  they  know  not  how  nor  why, 

Strange  fate  !  —  of  "  Cupid's  Alley." 

And  some  will  dance  an  age  or  so 

Who  came  for  half  a  minute  ; 
And  some,  who  like  the  game,  will  go 

Before  they  well  begin  it ; 
146 


CUPID'S  ALLEY. 

And  some  will  vow  they  Ye  "  danced  to  death,' 

Who  (somehow)  always  rally  ; 
Strange  cures  are  wrought  (mine  Author  saith), 

Strange  cures  !  —  in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 

It  may  be  one  will  dance  to-day, 

And  dance  no  more  to-morrow  ; 
It  may  be  one  will  steal  away 

And  nurse  a  life-long  sorrow ; 
What  then  >    The  rest  advance,  evade, 

Unite,  dispart,  and  dally, 
Re-set,  coquet,  and  gallopade, 

Not  less  —  in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 

For  till  that  City's  wheel-work  vast 

And  shuddering  beams  shall  crumble  ;  — 
And  till  that  Fiddler  lean  at  last 

From  off  his  seat  shall  tumble  ;  — 
Till  then  (the  Civic  records  say), 

This  quaint,  fantastic  ballet 
Of  Go  and  Stay,  of  Yea  and  Nay, 

Must  last  — in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 


147 


YIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


THE    IDYLL  OF   THE   CARP. 

(The  SCENE  is  in  a  garden,  —  where  you  please, 
So  that  it  lie  in  France,  and  have  withal 

Its  gray-stoned  pond  beneath  the  arching  trees, 
And  Triton  huge,  with  moss  for  coronal. 

A  PRINCESS,  —  feeding  fish.    To  her  DEMISE.) 

THE  PRINCESS. 
nTHESE,  DENISE,  are  my  Suitors  I 

DEMISE. 

Where  ? 

THE  PRINCESS. 

These  fish. 

I  feed  them  daily  here  at  morn  and  night 
With  crumbs  of  favour,  —  scraps  of  graciousncss, 
Not  meant,  indeed,  to  mean  the  thing  they  wish, 
But  serving  just  to  edge  an  appetite. 

(Throwing  bread.) 
Make   haste,   Messieurs!      Make    haste,    then! 

Hurry.     See, — 

See  how  they  swim  !    Would  you  not  say,  confess, 
Some  crowd  of  Courtiers  in  the  audience  hall, 
When  the  King  comes  ? 

DENISE. 

You  're  jesting  I 


THE  IDYLL   OF  THE  CARP 

THE  PRINCESS. 

Not  at  all. 
Watch  but  the  great  one  yonder  1    There  's  the 

Duke ;  — 

Those  gill-marks  mean  his  Order  of  St.  Luke  ; 
Those  old  skin-stains  his  boasted  quarterings. 
Look  what  a  swirl  and  roll  of  tide  he  brings ; 
Have  you  not  marked  him  thus,  with  crest  in  air, 
Breathing  disdain,  descend  the  palace-stair? 
You  surely  have,  DEMISE. 

DEMISE. 

I  think  I  have. 

But  there 's  another,  older  and  more  grave,  — 
The  one  that  wears  the  round  patch  on  the  throat, 
And  swims  with  such  slow  fins.     Is  he  of  note  ? 

THE  PRINCESS. 

Why  that  1s  my  good  chambellan  —  with  his  seal. 
A  kind  old  man  I  —  he  carves  me  orange-peel 
In  quaint  devices  at  refection-hours, 
Equips    my    sweet-pouch,    brings    me    morning 

flowers, 

Or  chirrups  madrigals  with  old,  sweet  words, 
Such  as  men  loved  when  people  wooed  like  birds 
And  spoke  the  true  note  first.      No  suitor  he, 

Yet  loves  me  too,  —  though  in  a  graybeard's  key- 
149 


yiGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

DENISE. 

Look,  Madam,  look  !  —  a  fish  without  a  stain  ! 
O  speckless,  fleckless  fish  1    Who  is  it,  pray, 
That  bears  him  so  discreetly  ? 

THE  PRINCESS. 

FONTENAY. 

You  know  him  not  ?    My  prince  of  shining  locks  ! 
My  pearl !  —  my  Phoenix  1  —  my  pomander-box  ! 
He  loves  not  Me,  alas  1    The  man  's  too  vain  1 
He  loves  his  doublet  better  than  my  suit,  — 
His  graces  than  my  favours.     Still  his  sash 
Sits  not  amiss,  and  he  can  touch  the  lute 
Not  wholly  out  of  tune  — 

DENISE. 

Ai !  what  a  splash  I 

Who  is  it  comes  with  such  a  sudden  dash 
Plump  i'  the  midst,  and  leaps  the  others  clear? 


THE  PRINCESS. 

Ho  !    for  a  trumpet !     Let  the  bells  be  rung  I 
Baron  of  Sans-terre,  Lord  of  Prts-en-Cieux, 
Vidame  of  Vol-au-Vent — "  el  aultres  lieux!" 
Bah  !    How  I  hate  his  Gasconading  tongue  ! 


THE  IDYLL  OF  THE  CARP. 

Why,  that 's  my  bragging  Bravo- Musketeer  — 
My  carpet  cut-throat,  valiant  by  a  scar 
Got  in  a  brawl  that  stands  for  Spanish  war :  — 
His  very  life  's  a  splash  1 

DENISE. 

I'd  rather  wear 

E'en  such  a  patched  and  melancholy  air, 
As  his,  —  that  motley  one,  —  who  keeps  the  wall, 
And  hugs  his  own  lean  thoughts  for  carnival. 

THE  PRINCESS. 

My  frankest  wooer  !     Thus  his  love  he  tells 
To  mournful  moving  of  his  cap  and  bells. 
He  loves  me  (so  he  saith)  as  Slaves  the  Free,  — 
As  Cowards  War,  —  as  young  Maids  Constancy. 
Item,  he  loves  me  as  the  Hawk  the  Dove  ; 
He  loves  me  as  the  Inquisition  Thought ;  — 

DENISE. 

"  He  loves  ?  —  he  loves  ? "    Why  all  this  loving 's 
naught  I 

THE  PRINCESS. 

And  "  Naught  (quoth  JACQUOT)  makes  the  sum 
of  Love  I " 


YIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

DENISE. 

The  cynic  knave !    How  call  you  this  one  here  ?  — 
This  small  shy-looking  fish,  that  hovers  near, 
And  circles,  like  a  cat  around  a  cage, 
To  snatch  the  surplus. 

THE  PRINCESS. 

CHERUBIN,  the  page. 

Tis  but  a  child,  yet  with  that  roguish  smile, 
And  those  sly  looks,  the  child  will  make  hearts 

ache 

Not  five  years  hence,  I  prophesy.     Meanwhile, 
He  lives  to  plague  the  swans  upon  the  lake, 
To  steal  my  comfits,  and  the  monkey's  cake. 

DENISE. 
And  these  —  that  swim  aside  —  who  may  these  be? 

THE  PRINCESS. 

Those  —  are  two  gentlemen  of  Picardy. 
Equal  in  blood,  —  of  equal  bravery  :  — 
D'AURELLES  and  MAUFRIGNAC.   They  hunt  in  pair ; 
I  mete  them  morsels  with  an  equal  care, 
Lest  they  should  eat  each  other,  —  or  eat  Me. 

DENISE. 
And  that  —  and  that  —  and  that? 


THE  IDYLL   OF  THE  CARP. 

THE  PRINCESS. 

I  name  them  not. 

Those  are  the  crowd  who  merely  think  their  lot 
The  lighter  by  my  land. 

DENISE. 

And  is  there  none 
More  prized  than  most?    There  surely  must  be 

one,  — 
A  Carp  of  carps  1 

THE  PRINCESS. 

Ah  me  1  —  he  will  not  come  ! 
He  swims  at  large,  —  looks  shyly  on,  — is  dumb. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  I  think  he  fain  would  nibble, 
But  while   he   stays  with  doubts  and   fears   to 

quibble, 

Some  gilded  fop,  or  mincing  courtier-fribble, 
Slips  smartly  in,  —  and  gets  the  proffered  crumb. 
He  should  have  all  my  crumbs  —  if  he  'd  but  ask  ; 
Nay,  an  he  would,  it  were  no  hopeless  task 
To  gain  a  something  more.      But  though  he's 

brave, 

He  's  far  too  proud  to  be  a  dangling  slave  ; 
And  then  —  he's  modest!     So  .  .  .  he  will  not 

come ! 

'S3 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


THE  SUNDIAL. 

'HTIS  an  old  dial,  dark  with  many  a  stain  ; 

In  summer  crowned  with  drifting  orchard 

bloom, 

Tricked  in  the  autumn  with  the  yellow  rain, 
And  white  in  winter  like  a  marble  tomb ; 


And  round  about  its  gray,  time-eaten  brow 
Lean  letters  speak  —  a  worn  and  shattered  row  : 

3T  am  a  SbaHe:  a  ^Ijafcctuc  too  arte  tljstt : 
2T  marie  tl;c  QUime :  gape,  t&osgtp,  'aost  tijou 


Here  would  the  ringdoves  linger,  head  to  head  ; 

And  here  the  snail  a  silver  course  would  run, 
Beating  old  Time  ;  and  here  the  peacock  spread 

His  gold-green  glory,  shutting  out  the  sun. 

The  tardy  shade  moved  forward  to  the  noon  ; 

Betwixt  the  paths  a  dainty  Beauty  stept, 
That  swung  a  flower,  and,   smiling,  hummed  a 
tune,  — 

Before  whose  feet  a  barking  spaniel  leapt. 


THE  SUNDIAL 

O'er  her  blue  dress  an  endless  blossom  strayed  ; 

About  her  tendril-curls  the  sunlight  shone  ; 
And  round  her  train  the  tiger-lilies  swayed, 

Like  courtiers  bowing  till  the  queen  be  gone. 

She  leaned  upon  the  slab  a  little  while, 

Then  drew  a  jewelled  pencil  from  her  zone, 

Scribbled  a  something  with  a  frolic  smile. 
Folded,  inscribed,  and  niched  it  in  the  stone. 

The  shade  slipped  on,  no  swifter  than  the  snail  ; 

There  came  a  second  lady  to  the  place, 
Dove-eyed,  dove-robed,  and  something  wan  and 
pale  — 

An  inner  beauty  shining  from  her  face. 

She,  as  if  listless  with  n  lonely  love, 

Straying  among  the  alleys  with  a  book,  — 

Herrick  or  Herbert,  —watched  the  circling  dove, 
And  spied  the  tiny  letter  in  the  nook. 

Then,  like  to  one  who  confirmation  found 

Of  some  dread  secret  half-accounted  true,  — 
Who   knew    what  hands   and   hearts   the  letter 

bound, 

And  argued  loving  commerce  'twixt  the  two, 
155 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

She  bent  her  fair  young  forehead  on  the  stone  ; 

The  dark  shade  gloomed   an  instant   on  her 

head  ; 
And  'twixt  her  taper-fingers  pearled  and  shone 

The  single  tear  that  tear-worn  eyes  will  shed. 


The  shade  slipped  onward  to  the  falling  gloom  ; 

There  came  a  soldier  gallant  in  her  stead, 
Swinging  a  beaver  with  a  swaling  plume, 

A  ribboned  love-lock  rippling  from  his  head  ; 

Blue-eyed,  frank-faced,  with  clear  and  open  brow, 
Scar-seamed  a  little,  as  the  women  love  ; 

So  kindly  fronted  that  you  marvel  how 
The  frequent  sword-hilt  had  so  frayed  his  glove ; 

Who  switched  at  Psyche  plunging  in  the  sun  ; 

Uncrowned  three  lilies  with  a  backward  swinge ; 
And  standing  somewhat  widely,  like  to  one 

More  used  to  "  Boot  and  Saddle"  than  to  cringe 

As  courtiers  do,  but  gentleman  withal, 

Took  out  the  note  ;  held  it  as  one  who  feared 
The  fragile  thing  he  held  would  slip  and  fall ; 
and  re-read,  pulling  his  tawny  beard  ; 


THE  SUNDIAL. 

Kissed  it,  I  think,  and  hid  it  in  his  breast; 

Laughed  softly  in  a  flattered  happy  way, 
Arranged  the  broidered  baldrick  on  his  chest, 

And  sauntered  past,  singing  a  roundelay. 

The  shade  crept  forward  through  the  dying  glow 
There  came  no  more  nor  dame  nor  cavalier  ; 

But  for  a  little  time  the  brass  will  show 
A  small  gray  spot  —  the  record  of  a  tear. 


157 


YIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 
AN    UNFINISHED   SONG. 

"  Cantat  Deo  qui  vivit  Deo." 

\/ES,  he  was  well-nigh  gone  and  near  his  rest, 

The  year  could  not  renew  him  ;  nor  the  cry 
Of  building  nightingales  about  the  nest ; 

Nor  that  soft  freshness  of  the  May-wind's  sigh, 

That  fell  before  the  garden  scents,  and  died 
Between  the  ampler  leafage  of  the  trees  : 

All  these  he  knew  not,  lying  open-eyed, 

Deep  in  a  dream  that  was  not  pain  nor  ease, 


But  death  not  yet.     Outside  a  woman  talked  — 
His  wife  she  was  —  whose  clicking  needles  sped 

To  faded  phrases  of  complaint  that  balked 
My  rising  words  of  comfort.     Overhead, 


A  cage  that  hung  amid  the  jasmine  stars 
Trembled  a  little,  and  a  blossom  dropped. 

Then  notes  came  pouring  through  the  wicker  bars, 
Climbed  half  a  rapid  arc  of  song,  and  stopped. 
153 


4N  UNFINISHED  SONG. 

"  Is  it  a  thrush  ?  "  I  asked.    "  A  thrush,"  she  said. 

"  That  was  Will's  tune.     Will  taught  him  that 

before 
He  left  the  doorway  settle  for  his  bed, 

Sick  as  you  see,  and  could  n't  teach  him  more. 

"  He  'd  bring  his  Bible  here  o'  nights,  would  Will, 
Following  the  light,  and  whiles  when  it  was  dark 
And  days  were  warm,  he  'd  sit  there  whistling  still, 
He  whistled  like  a  lark." 

"  Jack  !  Jack  I  "  A  joyous  flutter  stirred  the  cage, 
Shaking  the  blossoms  down.    The  bird  began  ; 

The  woman  turned  again  to  want  and  wage, 
And  in  the  inner  chamber  sighed  the  man. 

How  clear  the  song  was  !     Musing  as  I  heard, 
My  fancies  wandered  from  the  droning  wife 

To  sad  comparison  of  man  and  bird,  — 
The  broken  song,  the  uncompleted  life, 

That  seemed  a  broken  song  ;  and  of  the  two, 
My  thought  a  moment  deemed  the  bird  more 

blest, 

That,  when  the  sun  shone,  sang  the  notes  it  knew, 
Without  desire  or  knowledge  of  the  rest. 
159 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

Nay,  happier  man.     For  him  futurity 
Still  hides  a  hope  that  this  his  earthly  praise 

Finds  heavenly  end,  for  surely  will  not  He, 
Solver  of  all,  above  his  Flower  of  Days, 

Teach  him  the  song  that  no  one  living  knows  ? 

Let  the  man  die,  with  that  half-chant  of  his,  — 
What  Now  discovers  not  Hereafter  shows, 

And  God  will  surely  teach  him  more  than  this. 

Again  the  Bird.     I  turned,  and  passed  along  ; 

But  Time  and  Death,  Eternity  and  Change, 
Talked  with  me  ever,  and  the  climbing  song 

Rose  in  my  hearing,  beautiful  and  strange. 


160 


THE  CHILD-MUSICIAN. 


THE  CHILD-MUSICIAN. 

T  T  E  had  played  for  his  lordship's  levee, 

He  had  played  for  her  ladyship's  whim, 
Till  the  poor  little  head  was  heavy, 
And  the  poor  little  brain  would  swim. 


And  the  face  grew  peaked  and  eerie, 
And  the  large  eyes  strange  and  bright, 

And  they  said  —  too  late  —  "  He  is  weary  1 
He  shall  rest  for,  at  least,  To-night  1  " 

But  at  dawn,  when  the  birds  were  waking, 
As  they  watched  in  the  silent  room, 

With  the  sound  of  a  strained  cord  breaking, 
A  something  snapped  in  the  gloom. 

Twas  a  string  of  his  violoncello, 

And  they  heard  him  stir  in  his  bed  :  — 

"  Make  room  for  a  tired  little  fellow, 
Kind  God  1  —  "  was  the  last  that  he  said. 

VOL.  I. —  II 

161 


WGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


THE   CRADLE. 

TJ  OW  steadfastly  she  'd  worked  at  it ! 

How  lovingly  had  drest 
With  all  her  would-be-mother's  wit 
That  little  rosy  nest  I 

How  longingly  she  'd  hung  on  it !  — 
It  sometimes  seemed,  she  said, 

There  lay  beneath  its  coverlet 
A  little  sleeping  head. 

He  came  at  last,  the  tiny  guest, 

Ere  bleak  December  fled  ; 
That  rosy  nest  he  never  prest  .  .  . 

Her  coffin  was  his  bed. 


162 


BEFORE  SEDAN. 


BEFORE  SEDAN. 

"  The  dead  hand  clasped  a  letter" 

SPECIAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 

TT  ERE  in  this  leafy  place, 

Quiet  he  lies, 
Cold,  with  his  sightless  face 

Turned  to  the  skies  ; 
Tis  but  another  dead  ; 
All  you  can  say  is  said. 

Carry  his  body  hence,  — 

Kings  must  have  slaves  ; 
Kings  climb  to  eminence 

Over  men's  graves : 
So  this  man's  eye  is  dim  ;  — 
Throw  the  earth  over  him. 


What  was  the  white  you  touched, 

There,  at  his  side  ? 
Paper  his  hand  had  clutched 

Tight  ere  he  died  ;  — 
Message  or  wish,  may  be  ;  — 
Smooth  the  folds  out  and  see. 
163 


YIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

Hardly  the  worst  of  us 

Here  could  have  smiled  I  — 
Only  the  tremulous 

Words  of  a  child  ;  - 
Prattle,  that  has  for  stops 
Just  a  few  ruddy  drops. 

Look.     She  is  sad  to  miss, 

Morning  and  night, 
His  —  her  dead  father's — kiss; 

Tries  to  be  bright, 
Good  to  mamma,  and  sweet. 
That  is  all.     "  Marguerite." 

Ah,  if  beside  the  dead 
Slumbered  the  pain  I 

Ah,  if  the  hearts  that  bled 
Slept  with  the  slain  ! 

If  the  grief  died  ;  —  But  no  ;  — 

Death  will  not  have  it  so. 


164 


THE  FORGOTTEN  GRAYS. 
THE    FORGOTTEN    GRAVE. 

A   SKETCH    IN    A   CEMETERY. 

f^UT  from  the  City's  dust  and  roar, 

^     You  wandered  through  the  open  door ; 

Paused  at  a  plaything  pail  and  spade 

Across  a  tiny  hillock  laid  ; 

Then  noted  on  your  dexter  side 

Some  moneyed  mourner's  "  love  or  pride  " 

And  so,  —  beyond  a  hawthorn-tree, 

Showering  its  rain  of  rosy  bloom 

Alike  on  low  and  lofty  tomb,  — 

You  came  upon  it  —  suddenly. 

How  strange  !    The  very  grasses'  growth 

Around  it  seemed  forlorn  and  loath  ; 

The  very  ivy  seemed  to  turn 

Askance  that  wreathed  the  neighbour  urn. 

The  slab  had  sunk  ;  the  head  declined, 

And  left  the  rails  a  wreck  behind. 

No  name;  you  traced  a  "  6,"  —  a  "7," 

Part  of  "  affliction  "  and  of  "  Heaven  "  ; 

And  then,  in  letters  sharp  and  clear, 

You  read  —  O  Irony  austere  !  — 

"  Tho'  lost  to  Sight,  to  Memory  dear" 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


MY    LANDLADY. 

A    SMALL  brisk  woman,  capped  with  many  a 
"      bow ; 

"  Yes,"  so  she  says,  "  and  younger,  too,  than 

some," 

Who  bids  me,  bustling,  "  God  speed,"  when  I  go, 
And  gives  me,  rustling,  "Welcome,"  when  I 
come. 

"Ay,  sir,  'tis  cold, —  and  freezing  hard,  —  they 
say; 

I  'd  like  to  give  that  hulking  brute  a  hit  — 
Beating  his  horse  in  such  a  shameful  way  1  — 

Step  here,  sir,  till  your  fire  's  blazed  up  a  bit." 

A  musky  haunt  of  lavender  and  shells, 

Quaint-figured    Chinese    monsters,    toys,   and 
trays  — 

A  life's  collection  —  where  each  object  tells 
Of  fashions  gone  and  half-forgotten  ways  :  — 


A  glossy  screen,  where  wide-mouth  dragons  ramp ; 
A  vexed  inscription  in  a  sampler-frame  ; 
166 


MY  LANDLADY. 


A  shade  of  beads  upon  a  red-capped  lamp ; 
A  child's  mug  graven  with  a  golden  name  ; 


A  pictured  ship,  with  full-blown  canvas  set ; 

A  card,  with  sea-weed  twisted  to  a  wreath, 
Circling  a  silky  curl  as  black  as  jet, 

With  yellow  writing  faded  underneath. 


Looking,  I  sink  within  the  shrouded  chair, 
And  note  the  objects  slowly,  one  by  one, 

And  light  at  last  upon  a  portrait  there,  — 
Wide-collared,  raven-haired.     "  Yes,   'tis  my 

son  I " 


"  Where  is  he  ?"    "Ah,  sir,  he  is  dead  —  my  boy  I 
Nigh  ten  long  years  ago  —  in  'sixty-three; 

He  's  always  living  in  my  head  —  my  boy  1 
He  was  left  drowning  in  the  Southern  Sea. 


"There  were  two  souls  washed  overboard,  they 

said, 
And  one  the  waves  brought  back  ;  but  he  was 

left. 

They  saw  him  place  the  life-buoy  o'er  his  head  ; 

The  sea  was  running  wildly  ;  —  he  was  left. 

167 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 

"He  was  a  strong,   strong  swimmer.     Do  you 
know, 

When  the  wind  whistled  yesternight,  I  cried, 
And  prayed  to  God,  —  though  'twas  so  long  ago,  — 

He  did  not  struggle  much  before  he  died. 


"  '  Twas  his  third  voyage.      That 's  the  box  he 

brought,  — 

Or  would  have  brought — my  poor  deserted  boy ! 
And   these  the  words    the  agents   sent  —  they 

thought 
That  money,  perhaps,  could  make  my  loss  a  joy. 


"  Look,  sir,  I  've  something  here  that   I   prize 

more : 

This  is  a  fragment  of  the  poor  lad's  coat,  — 
That  other  clutched  him  as  the  wave  went  o'er, 
And  this  stayed  in  his  hand.    That 's  what  they 
wrote. 


"  Well,  well,  'tis  done.      My  story  's  shocking 

you  ;  — 
Grief  is  for  them   that  have  both   time  and 

wealth : 

1 68 


MY  LANDLADY. 

We  can't  mourn  much,  who   have   much  work 

to  do ; 

Your  fire  is  bright.     Thank  God,  I  have  my 
health  ! " 


169 


yiGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


BEFORE   THE    CURTAIN. 

"TV/TISS    PEACOCK'S   called."      And   who 

iV1         demurs  ? 

Not  I  who  write,  for  certain ; 
If  praise  be  due,  one  sure  prefers 
That  some  such  face  as  fresh  as  hers 

Should  come  before  the  curtain. 

And  yet,  most  strange  to  say,  I  find 

(E'en  bards  are  sometimes  prosy) 
Her  presence  here  but  brings  to  mind 
That  undistinguished  crowd  behind 

For  whom  life  's  not  so  rosy. 

The  pleased  young  premier  led  her  on, 

But  where  are  all  the  others  ? 
Where  is  that  nimble  servant  John  ? 
And  where 's  the  comic  Uncle  gone  ? 

And  where  that  best  of  Mothers  ? 

Where  is  "  Sir  Lumley  Leycester,  Bart."  ? 

And  where  the  crafty  Cousin  ?  — 
That  man  may  have  a  kindly  heart, 
And  yet  each  night  ('tis  in  the  part) 

Must  poison  half-a-dozen ! 
170 


BEFORE   THE  CURTAIN. 

Where  is  the  cool  Detective,  —  he 

Should  surely  be  applauded  ? 
The  Lawyer,  who  refused  the  fee  ?  — 
The  Wedding  Guests  (in  number  three)  ?- 

Why  are  they  all  defrauded  ? 

The  men  who  worked  the  cataract  ? 

The  plush-clad  carpet  lifters?  — 
Where  is  the  countless  host,  in  fact, 
Whose  cue  is  not  to  speak,  but  act, — 

The  "  supers"  and  the  shifters? 

Think  what  a  crowd  whom  none  recall, 
Unsung,  —  unpraised,  —  unpitied  ;  — 
Women  for  whom  no  bouquets  fall, 
And  men  whose  names  no  galleries  bawl, 
The  Great  unBenefit-ed  1 

Ah,  Reader,  ere  you  turn  the  page, 

I  leave  you  this  for  Moral :  — 
Remember  those  who  tread  Life's  stage 
With  weary  feet  and  scantest  wage, 
And  ne'er  a  leaf  for  laurel ! 


171 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


A   NIGHTINGALE-  IN    KENSINGTON 
GARDENS. 

HPHEY  paused,  — the  cripple  in  the  chair, 

More  bent  with  pain  than  age  ; 
The  mother  with  her  lines  of  care  ; 
The  many-buttoned  page  ; 


The  noisy,  red-cheeked  nursery-maid, 

With  straggling  train  of  three  ; 
The  Frenchman  with  his  frogs  and  braid  ;  — 

All,  curious,  paused  to  see, 


If  possible,  the  small,  dusk  bird 
That  from  the  almond  bough, 

Had  poured  the  joyous  chant  they  heard, 
So  suddenly,  but  now. 


And  one  poor  POET  stopped  and  thought 

How  many  a  lonely  lay 
That  bird  had  sung  ere  fortune  brought 

It  near  the  common  way, 
172 


A  NIGHTINGALE  IN  KENSINGTON  GARDENS. 

Where  the  crowd  hears  the  note.     And  then,  — 

What  birds  must  sing  the  song, 
To  whom  that  hour  of  listening  men 

Could  ne'er  in  life  belong  1 

But  "Art  for  Art !  "  the  Poet  said, 

"Tis  still  the  Nightingale, 
That  sings  where  no  men's  feet  will  tread, 

And  praise  and  audience  fail." 


'73 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES. 


A  SONG   OF  THE   FOUR  SEASONS. 

VK7HEN  Spring  comes  laughing 
VV       By  vale  and  hill, 
By  wind-flower  walking 

And  daffodil,— 
Sing  stars  of  morning, 

Sing  morning  skies, 
Sing  blue  of  speedwell,  — 

And  my  Love's  eyes. 

When  comes  the  Summer, 

Full-leaved  and  strong, 
And  gay  birds  gossip 

The  orchard  long,  — 
Sing  hid,  sweet  honey 

That  no  bee  sips  ; 
Sing  red,  red  roses,  — 

And  my  Love's  lips. 

When  Autumn  scatters 

The  leaves  again, 
And  piled  sheaves  bury 

The  broad-wheeled  wain,  — 

VOL.  I.  —  12  17? 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

Sing  flutes  of  harvest 
Where  men  rejoice ; 

Sing  rounds  of  reapers,  — 
And  my  Love's  voice. 

But  when  comes  Winter 

With  hail  and  storm, 
And  red  fire  roaring 

And  ingle  warm, — 
Sing  first  sad  going 

Of  friends  that  part ; 
Then  sing  glad  meeting,  — 

And  my  Love's  heart. 


178 


THE  PARADOX  OF  TIME. 
THE   PARADOX   OF  TIME. 

(A   VARIATION    ON   RONSARD.) 

"  Le  temps  s'en  va,  le  temps  s'en  va,  ma  dame  ! 
Las  !  le  temps  non  :  mat's  NOUS  nous  en  aliens  !  " 

'"PI ME  goes,  you  say  ?    Ah  no  1 
Alas,  Time  stays,  we  go  ; 

Or  else,  were  this  not  so, 
What  need  to  chain  the  hours, 
For  Youth  were  always  ours  ? 

Time  goes,  you  say  ?  —  ah  no  1 

Ours  is  the  eyes'  deceit 
Of  men  whose  flying  feet 

Lead  through  some  landscape  low  ; 
We  pass,  and  think  we  see 
The  earth's  fixed  surface  flee  :  — 

Alas,  Time  stays,  — we  go  ! 

Once  in  the  days  of  old, 
Your  locks  were  curling  gold, 

And  mine  had  shamed  the  crow. 
Now,  in  the  self-same  stage, 
We  Ve  reached  the  silver  age  ; 

Time  goes,  you  say  ?  —  ah  no  I 
179 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

Once,  when  my  voice  was  strong, 
I  filled  the  woods  with  song 

To  praise  your  "  rose  "  and  "  sn 
My  bird,  that  sang,  is  dead  ; 
Where  are  your  roses  fled  ? 

Alas,  Time  stays,  — we  go  ! 

See,  in  what  traversed  ways, 
What  backward  Fate  delays        ' 

The  hopes  we  used  to  know ; 
Where  are  our  old  desires  ?  — 
Ah,  where  those  vanished  fires  ? 

Time  goes,  you  say  ?  —  ah  no  1 

How  far,  how  far,  O  Sweet, 
The  past  behind  our  feet 

Lies  in  the  even-glow  ! 
Now,  on  the  forward  way, 
Let  us  fold  hands,  and  pray  ; 

Alas,  Time  stays,  —  we  go  1 


180 


TO  A  GREEK  GIRL. 


TO   A   GREEK   GIRL. 

~\\  7ITH  breath  of  thyme  and  bees  that  hum, 
Across  the  years  you  seem  to  come, — ' 
Across  the  years  with  nymph-like  head, 
And  wind-blown  brows  unfilleted  ; 
A  girlish  shape  that  slips  the  bud 

In  lines  of  unspoiled  symmetry; 
A  girlish  shape  that  stirs  the  blood 

With  pulse  of  Spring,  Autonoe  I 


Where'er  you  pass,  —  where'er  you  go, 
I  hear  the  pebbly  rillet  flow  ; 
Where'er  you  go,  —  where'er  you  pass, 
There  comes  a  gladness  on  the  grass  ; 
You  bring  blithe  airs  where'er  you  tread,  — 

Blithe  airs  that  blow  from  down  and  sea  ; 
You  wake  in  me  a  Pan  not  dead,  — 

Not  wholly  dead  !  —  Autonoe  1 


How  sweet  with  you  on  some  green  sod 
To  wreathe  the  rustic  garden-god  ; 
How  sweet  beneath  the  chestnut's  shade 
With  you  to  weave  a  basket-braid  ; 
181 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

To  watch  across  the  stricken  chords 
Your  rosy-twinkling  fingers  flee  ; 

To  woo  you  in  soft  woodland  words, 
With  woodland  pipe,  Autonoe  ! 

In  vain,  —  in  vain  I     The  years  divide  : 
Where  Thamis  rolls  a  murky  tide, 
I  sit  and  fill  my  painful  reams, 
And  see  you  only  in  my  dreams  ;  — 
A  vision,  like  Alcestis,  brought 

From  under-lands  of  Memory, — 
A  dream  of  Form  in  days  of  Thought, 

A  dream,  —  a  dream,  Autonoe  ! 


182 


THE  DEATH  OF  PROCRJS. 


THE    DEATH    OF    PROCRIS. 

A.  VERSION    SUGGESTED   BY  THE    SO-NAMED   PICTURE 
OF  PIERO  DI  COSIMO,  IN  THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY. 

pROCRIS  the  nymph  had  wedded  Cephalus: 
He,  till  the  spring  had  warmed  to  slow- 
winged  days 

Heavy  with  June,  untired  and  amorous, 
Named  her  his  love ;   but  now,  in  unknown 

ways, 

His  heart  was  gone  ;  and  evermore  his  gaze 
Turned  from  her  own,  and  ever  farther  ranged 
His  woodland  war ;  while  she,  in  dull  amaze, 
Beholding  with  the  hours  her  husband  changed, 
Sighed   for  his   lost  caress,   by  some  hard  god 
estranged. 


So,  on  a  day,  she  rose  and  found  him  not. 
Alone,  with  wet,  sad  eye,  she  watched  the  shade 
Brighten  below  a  soft-rayed  sun  that  shot 
Arrows  of  light   through  all   the  deep-leaved 

glade ; 

183 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

Then,  with  weak  hands,  she  knotted  up  the 

braid 

Of  her  brown  hair,  and  o'er  her  shoulders  cast 
Her  crimson  weed  ;  with  faltering  fingers  made 
Her  golden  girdle's  clasp  to  join,  and  past 
Down  to  the  trackless  wood,  full  pale  and  over- 
cast. 

And  all  day  long  her  slight  spear  devious  flew, 
And  harmless  swerved  her  arrows  from  their 

aim, 

For  ever,  as  the  ivory  bow  she  drew, 
Before  her  ran  the  still  unwounded  game. 
Then,  at  the  last,  a  hunter's  cry  there  came, 
And,  lo,  a  hart  that  panted  with  the  chase ; 
Thereat  her  cheek  was  lightened  as  with  flame, 
And  swift  she  gat  her  to  a  leafy  place, 
Thinking,  "  I  yet  may  chance  unseen  to  see  his 

face." 

Leaping  he  went,  this  hunter  Cephalus, 
Bent  in  his  hand  his  cornel  bow  he  bare, 
Supple  he  was,  round-limbed  and  vigorous, 
Fleet  as  his  dogs,  a  lean  Laconian  pair. 
He,  when  he  spied  the  brown  of  Procris'  hair 
Move  in  the  covert,  deeming  that  apart 
•  Some  fawn  lay  hidden,  loosed  an  arrow  there  ; 
184 


THE  DEATH  OF  PROCRIS. 

Nor  cared  to  turn  and  seek  the  speeded  dart, 
Bounding  above  the  fern,  fast  following  up  the 
hart. 

But  Procris  lay  among  the  white  wind-flowers, 
Shot  in  the  throat.  From  out  the  little  wound 
The  slow  blood  drained,  as  drops  in  autumn 

showers 

Drip  from  the  leaves  upon  the  sodden  ground. 
None  saw  her  die  but  Lelaps,  the  swift  hound, 
That  watched  her  dumbly  with  a  wistful  fear, 
Till,  at  the  dawn,  the  horned  wood-men  found 
And  bore  her  gently  on  a  sylvan  bier, 
To  lie  beside  the  sea,  —  with  many  an  uncouth 

tear. 


185 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


THE   PRAYER   OF  THE  SWINE  TO 
CIRCE. 

TTUDDLING  they  came,  with  shag  sides 

caked  of  mire,  — 
With  hoofs  fresh  sullied  from  the  troughs  o'er- 

turned, — 
With   wrinkling  snouts,  —  yet  eyes   in  which 

desire 

Of  some  strange  thing  unutterably  burned, 
Unquenchable  ;  and  still  where'er  She  turned 
They  rose  about  her,  striving  each  o'er  each, 
With  restless,  fierce  imp6rtuning  that  yearned 
Through  those  brute  masks  some  piteous  tale 

to  teach, 
Yet  lacked  the  words  thereto,  denied  the  power 

of  speech. 


For  these —  Eurylochus  alone  escaping  — 
In  truth,  that  small  exploring  band  had  been, 
Whom  wise  Odysseus,  dim  precaution  shaping, 
Ever  at  heart,  of  peril  unforeseen, 
Had    sent    inland ;  —  whom    then    the    islet- 
Queen,  — 

186 


THE  PRAYER.   OF  THE  SWME   TO  CIRCE. 

The  fair  disastrous  daughter  of  the  Sun, — 
Had  turned  to  likeness  of  the  beast  unclean, 
With  evil  wand  transforming  one  by  one 
To  shapes  of  loathly  swine,  imbruted  and  undone. 


But  "  the  men's  minds  remained,"  and  these 

for  ever 
Made  hungry  suppliance  through  the   fire-red 

eyes  ; 

Still  searching  aye,  with  impotent  endeavour, 
To  find,  if  yet,  in  any  look,  there  lies 
A  saving  hope,  or  if  they  might  surprise 
In  that  cold  face  soft  pity's  spark  concealed, 
Which  she,  still  scorning,  evermore  denies  ; 
Nor  was  there  in  her  any  ruth  revealed 
To  whom  with  such  mute  speech  and  dumb  words 

they  appealed. 


What  hope  is  ours  —  what  hope  !    To  find  no 

mercy 

After  much  war,  and  many  travails  done  ?  — 
Ah,  kinder  far  than  thy  fell  philtres,  Circe, 
The  ravening  Cyclops  and  the  Lcestrigon  / 
And  O,  thrice  cursed  be  Laertes'  son, 
By  whom,  at  last,  we  watch  the  days  decline 
With  no  fair  ending  of  the  quest  begun, 
187 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

Condemned  in  sties  to  weary  and  to  pine 
And  with  mens  hearts  to  beat  through  this  foul  front 
of  swine  I 


For  us  not  now,  — for  us,  alas  1  no  more 
The  old  green  glamour  of  the  glancing  sea  ; 
For  us  not  now  the  laughter  of  the  oar,  — 
The  strong-ribbed  keel  wherein  our  comrades  be  ; 
Not  now,  at  even,  any  more  shall  we, 
By  low-browed  banks  and  reedy  river  places, 
Watch  the  beast  hurry  and  the  wild  fowl  flee ; 
Or  steering  shoreward,  in  the  upland  spaces 
Have  sight  of  curling  smoke  and  fair-skinned  foreign 
faces. 


Alas  for  us ! — for  whom  the  columned  houses 
We  left  afore-time,  cheerless  must  abide ; 
Cheerless    the    hearth    where    now    no    guest 

carouses,  — 

No  minstrel  raises  song  at  eventide ; 
And  O,  more  cheerless  than  aught  else  beside, 
The  wistful  hearts  with  heavy  longing  full; — 
The  wife  that  watched  us  on  the  ivaning  tide,  — 
The  sire  whose  eyes  with  weariness  are  dull,  — 
The  mother  whose  slow  tears  fall  on  the  carded 

wool. 

1 88 


THE  PRAYER   OF   THE  SIVINE   TO  CIRCE. 

If  swine  we  be,  — if  we  indeed  be  swine, 
Daughter  of  Perse",  make  us  swine  indeed, 
Well-pleased  on  litter-straw  to  lie  supine,  — 
Well-pleased  on  mast  and  acorn-shales  to  feed, 
Stirred  by  all  instincts  of  the  bestial  breed  ; 
Bui  O  Unmerciful!    O  Pitiless ! 
Leave  us  not  thus  with  sick  mens  hearts  to  bleed! — 
To  waste  long  days  in  yearning,  dumb  distress 
And  memory  of  things  gone,  and  utter  hopelessness! 


Leave  us  at  least,  if  not  the  things  we  were, 
At  least  consentient  to  the  thing  we  be  ; 
Not  hapless  doomed  to  loathe  the  forms  we  bear, 
And  senseful  roll  in  senseless  savagery; 
For  surely  cursed  above  all  cursed  are  we, 
And  surely  this  the  bitterest  of  ill ;  — 
To  feel  the  old  aspirings  fair  and  free, 
Become  blind  motions  of  a  powerless  will 
Through  swine-like  frames  dispersed  to  swine-like 
issues  still. 


But  make  us  men  again,  for  that  thou  may'st  / 
Yea,  make  us  men,  Enchantress,  and  restore 
These  grovelling  shapes,  degraded  and  debased, 
To  fair  embodiments  of  men  once  more  ; 
Yea,  by  all  men.  that  ever  woman  bore  ; 
189 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

Yea,  e'en  by  him  hereafter  born  in  pain, 
Shall  draw  sustainment  from  thy  bosom's  core, 
O'er  whom  thy  face  yet  kindly  shall  remain, 
And  find  its  like  therein,  — make  thou  us  men  again ! 

Make  thou  us  men  again,  — if  men  but  groping 
That  dark  Hereafter  which  th'  Olympians  keep  ; 
Make  thou  us  men  again,  —  if  men  but  hoping 
Behind  death's  doors  security  of  sleep ;  — 
For  yet  to  laugh  is  somewhat,  and  to  weep  ;  — 
To  fed  delight  of  living,  and  to  plough 
The  salt-blown  acres  of  the  shoreless  deep ;  — 
Better, — yea  better  far  all  these  than  bow 
Foul  faces  to  foul  earth  and  yearn  —  as  we  do  now  I 

So  they  in  speech  unsyllabled.     But  She, 
The  fair-tressed  Goddess,  born  to  be  their  bane, 
Uplifting  straight  her  wand  of  ivory, 
Compelled  them  groaning  to  the  sties  again  ; 
Where  they  in  hopeless  bitterness  were  fain 
To  rend  the  oaken  woodwork  as  before, 
And  tear  the  troughs  in  impotence  of  pain,  — 
Not  knowing,  they,  that  even  at  the  door 
Divine  Odysseus  stood,  —  as  Hermes  told  of  yore. 


190 


A  CASE  OF  CAMEOS. 


A  CASE    OF    CAMEOS. 


(The  Power  of  Love.) 

THIRST,  in  an  Agate-stone,  a  Centaur  strong, 
With  square  man-breasts  and  hide  of  dapple 

dun, 

His  brown  arms  bound  behind  him  with  a  thong, 
On  strained  croup  strove  to  free  himself  from 

one, — 

A  bolder  rider  than  Bellerophon. 
For,  on  his  back,  by  some  strange  power  of  art, 
There  sat  a  laughing  Boy  with  bow  and  dart, 
Who  drave  him  where  he  would,  and  driving  him, 
With  that  barbed  toy  would  make  him  rear  and 

start. 
To  this  was  writ  "  World-victor"  on  the  rim. 


CHALCEDONY. 

(The  Thefts  of  Mercury.) 

THE  next  in  legend  bade  "  Beware  of  show  I 
'Twas  graven  this  on  pale  Chalcedony. 
Here  great  Apollo,  with  unbended  bow, 
His  quiver  hard  by  on  a  laurel  tree, 
191 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

For  some  new  theft  was  rating  Mercury. 
Who  stood  with  downcast  eyes,  and  feigned  dis- 
tress, 

As  daring  not,  for  utter  guiltiness, 
To  meet  that  angry  voice  and  aspect  joined. 
His  very  heel-wings  drooped  ;  but  yet,  not  less, 
His  backward  hand  the  Sun-God's  shafts  pur- 
loined. 

SARDONYX. 

(The  Song  of  Orpheus.) 
THEN,  on  a  Sardonyx,  the  man  of  Thrace, 
The  voice  supreme  that  through  Hell's  portals 

stole, 

With  carved  white  lyre  and  glorious  song-lit  face, 
(Too  soon,  alas  !  on  Hebrus'  wave  to  roll !) 
Played  to  the  beasts,  from  a  great  elm-tree  bole. 
And  lo  1  with  half-shut  eyes  the  leopard  spread 
His  lissome  length  ;  and  deer  with  gentle  tread 
Came   through   the   trees ;    and,  from  a  nearer 

spring, 

The  prick-eared  rabbit  paused  ;  while  overhead 
The  stock-dove  drifted  downward,  fluttering. 

AMETHYST. 

(The  Crowning  of  Silenus.) 
NEXT  came  an  Amethyst,  — the  grape  in  hue. 

On  a  mock  throne,  by  fresh  excess  disgraced, 
192 


A  CASE   OF  CAMEOS. 

With  heavy  head,  and  thyrsus  held  askew, 
The  Youths,  in  scorn,  had  dull  Silenus  placed, 
And  o'er  him  "  King  of  Topers"  they  had  traced. 
Yet  but  a  King  of  Sleep  he  seemed  at  best, 
Wi^h  wine-bag  cheeks  that  bulged  upon  his  breast, 
And  vat-like  paunch  distent  from  his  carouse. 
Meanwhile,  his  ass,  by  no  respect  represt, 
Munched  at  the  wreath  upon  her  Master's  brows. 


(The  Sirens.) 

LASTLY,  with  "  Pleasure  "  was  a  Beryl  graven, 
Clear-hued,  divine.     Thereon  the  Sirens  sung. 
What  time,  beneath,  by  rough  rock-bases  caven, 
And  jaw-like  rifts  where  many  a  green  bone  clung, 
The    strong    flood-tide,    in-rushing,    coiled    and 

swung. 

Then,  —  in  the  offing,  —  on  the  lift  of  the  sea, 
A  tall  ship  drawing  shoreward  —  helplessly. 
For,  from  the  prow,  e'en  now  the  rowers  leap 
Headlong,    nor  seek   from   that   sweet    fate    to 

flee  ... 
Ah  me,  those  Women-witches  of  the  Deep  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


THE  SICK   MAN    AND  THE   BIRDS. 

jEGROTUS. 

C  PRING,  —  art  thou  come,  O  Spring  1 

I  am  too  sick  for  words  ; 
How  hast  thou  heart  to  sing, 
O  Spring,  with  all  thy  birds  > 

MERULA. 

I  sing  for  joy  to  see  again 
The  merry  leaves  along  the  lane, 

The  little  bud  grown  ripe  ; 
And  look,  my  love  upon  the  bough  ! 
Hark,  how  she  calleth  to  me  now,  — 
"  Pipe  !  pipel" 

jEGROTUS. 

Ah  I  weary  is  the  sun  : 

Love  is  an  idle  thing  ; 
But,  Bird,  thou  restless  one, 

What  ails  thee,  wandering? 

HlRUNDO. 

By  shore  and  sea  I  come  and  go 
To  seek  I  know  not  what ;  and  lo  I 
On  no  man's  eaves  I  sit 
194 


THE  SICK  MAN  AND   THE  BIRDS. 

But  voices  bid  me  rise  once  more, 
To  flit  again  by  sea  and  shore,  — 
Flit!   Flit! 


This  is  Earth's  bitter  cup  :  — 

Only  to  seek,  not  know. 
But  Thou,  that  strives!  up, 

Why  dost  thou  carol  so  ? 

ALA.UDA. 

A  secret  Spirit  gifteth  me 
With  song,  and  wing  that  lifteth  me, 

A  Spirit  for  whose  sake, 
Striving  amain  to  reach  the  sky, 
Still  to  the  old  dark  earth  I  cry,  — 
"Wake!  wakel 

jEGROTUS. 

My  hope  hath  lost  its  wing. 

Thou,  that  to  Night  dost  call, 
How  hast  thou  heart  to  sing 

Thy  tears  made  musical  ? 

PHILOMELA. 

Alas  for  me  !  a  dry  desire 
Is  all  my  song,  —  a  waste  of  fire 
That  will  not  fade  nor  fail  ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

To  me,  dim  shapes  of  ancient  crime 
Moan  through  the  windy  ways  of  time, 
"  Wail  I  wail  P 

jEGROTUS. 

This  is  the  sick  man's  song,  — 
Mournful,  in  sooth,  and  fit ; 

Unrest  that  cries  "  How  long  I  "  — 
And  the  Night  answers  it. 


196 


A  FLOWER  SONG  OF  ANGIOLA. 


A    FLOWER   SONG   OF   ANGIOLA. 

T^OWN  where  the  garden  grows, 

Gay  as  a  banner, 
Spake  to  her  mate  the  Rose 

After  this  manner  :  — 
"  We  are  the  first  of  flowers, 

Plain-land  or  hilly, 
All  reds  and  whites  are  ours, 

Are  they  not,  Lily  ?" 

Then  to  the  flowers  I  spake,  — 

"  Watch  ye  my  Lady 
Gone  to  the  leafy  brake, 

Silent  and  shady ; 
When  I  am  near  to  her, 

Lily,  she  knows  ; 
How  I  am  dear  to  her, 

Look  to  it,  Rose." 

Straightway  the  Blue-bell  stooped, 

Paler  for  pride, 
Down  where  the  Violet  drooped, 

Shy,  at  her  side  :  — 
197 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

"  Sweetheart,  save  me  and  you, 
Where  has  the  summer  kist 

Flowers  of  as  fair  a  hue,  — 
Turkis  or  Amethyst  ? " 

Therewith  I  laughed  aloud, 

Spake  on  this  wise, 
"  O  little  flowers  so  proud, 

Have  ye  seen  eyes 
Change  through  the  blue  in  them, 

Change  till  the  mere 
Loving  that  grew  in  them 

Turned  to  a  tear  ? 

"  Flowers,  ye  are  bright  of  hue, 

Delicate,  sweet ; 
Flowers,  and  the  sight  of  you 

Lightens  men's  feet ; 
Yea  ;  but  her  worth  to  me, 

Flowerets,  even, 
Sweetening  the  earth  to  me, 

Sweeteneth  heaven, 

"  This,  then,  O  Flowers,  I  sing  ; 

God,  when  He  made  ye, 
Made  yet  a  fairer  thing 

Making  my  Lady  ;  — 
198 


A  FLOWER  SONG  OF  ANGIOLA. 

Fashioned  her  tenderly, 
Giving  all  weal  to  her  ;  — 

Girdle  ye  slenderly, 

Go  to  her,  kneel  to  her,  — 

"  Saying,  «  He  sendeth  us, 

He  the  most  dutiful, 
Meetly  he  endeth  us, 

Maiden  most  beautiful ! 
Let  us  get  rest  of  you, 

Sweet,  in  your  breast ;  — 
Die,  being  prest  of  you, 

Die,  being  blest.' " 


199 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 
A  SONG  OF  ANGIOLA    IN    HEAVEN. 

"  Vale,  unica  !  " 

"P  LOWERS,  —  that  have  died  upon  my  Sweet 

Lulled  by  the  rhythmic  dancing  beat 
Of  her  young  bosom  under  you,  — 
Now  will  I  show  you  such  a  thing 
As  never,  through  thick  buds  of  Spring, 

Betwixt  the  daylight  and  the  dew, 
The  Bird  whose  being  no  man  knows  — 
The  voice  that  waketh  all  night  through, 
Tells  to  the  Rose. 

For  lo,  —  a  garden-place  I  found, 

Well  filled  of  leaves,  and  stilled  of  sound, 

Well  flowered,  with  red  fruit  marvellous  ; 
And  'twixt  the  shining  trunks  would  flit 
Tall  knights  and  silken  maids,  or  sit 

With  faces  bent  and  amorous  ;  — 
There,  in  the  heart  thereof,  and  crowned 

With  woodbine  and  amaracus, 
My  Love  I  found. 

Alone  she  walked,  —  ah,  well  I  wis, 
My  heart  leapt  up  for  joy  of  this  !  — 


A  SONG  OF  ANGIOLA  IN  HEAVEN. 

Then  when  I  called  to  her  her  name, — 
The  name,  that  like  a  pleasant  thing 
Men's  lips  remember,  murmuring, 

At  once  across  the  sward  she  came,  — 
Full  fain  she  seemed,  my  own  dear  maid, 

And  asked  ever  as  she  came, 

"  Where  hast  thou  stayed  ? " 


"Where    hast    thou    stayed?"  —  she  asked  as 

though 
The  long  years  were  an  hour  ago  ; 

But  I  spake  not,  nor  answered, 
For,  looking  in  her  eyes,  I  saw, 
A  light  not  lit  of  mortal  law  ; 

And  in  her  clear  cheek's  changeless  red, 
And  sweet,  unshaken  speaking  found 

That  in  this  place  the  Hours  were  dead, 
And  Time  was  bound. 


"This  is  well  done,"  —  she  said,  —  "in  thee, 
O  Love,  that  thou  art  come  to  me, 

To  this  green  garden  glorious  ; 
Now  truly  shall  our  life  be  sped 
In  joyance  and  all  goodlihed, 

For  here  all  things  are  fair  to  us, 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

And  none  with  burden  is  oppressed, 
And  none  is  poor  or  piteous,  — 
For  here  is  Rest. 

"  No  formless  Future  blurs  the  sky; 
Men  mourn  not  here,  with  dull  dead  eye, 

By  shrouded  shapes  of  Yesterday  ; 
Betwixt  the  Coming  and  the  Past 
The  flawless  life  hangs  fixen  fast 

In  one  unwearying  To-Day, 
That  darkens  not ;  for  Sin  is  shriven, 

Death  from  the  doors  is  thrust  away, 
And  here  is  Heaven." 

At  "  Heaven  "  she  ceased  ;  —  and  lifted  up 
Her  fair  head  like  a  flower-cup, 

With  rounded  mouth,  and  eyes  aglow; 
Then  set  I  lips  to  hers,  and  felt,  — 
Ah,  God,  —  the  hard  pain  fade  and  melt, 

And  past  things  change  to  painted  show  ; 
The  song  of  quiring  birds  outbroke  ; 

The  lit  leaves  laughed,  —  sky  shook,  and  lo, 
I  swooned,  —  and  woke. 

And  now,  O  Flowers, 

—  Ye  that  indeed  are  dead,  — 
Now  for  all  waiting  hours, 
Well  am  I  comforted  ; 
202 


A  SONG  OF  ANGIOLA  IN  HEAVEN. 

For  of  a  surety,  now,  I  see, 

That,  without  dim  distress 

Of  tears,  or  weariness, 
My  Lady,  verily,  awaiteth  me  ; 
So  that  until  with  Her  I  be, 

For  my  dear  Lady's  sake 

I  am  right  fain  to  make 
Out  from  my  pain  a  pillow,  and  to  take 
Grief  for  a  golden  garment  unto  me  ; 

Knowing  that  I,  at  last,  shall  stand 

In  that  green  garden-land, 
And,  in  the  holding  of  my  dear  Love's  hand, 
Forget  the  grieving  and  the  misery. 


203 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


THE  DYING  OF  TANNEGUY  DU  BOIS. 

En  los  nidos  de  antafto 
No  hay  pdjaros  hogano. 

SPANISH  PROVERB. 

\7"EA,  I  am  passed  away,  I  think,  from  this ; 

Nor  helps  me  herb,  nor  any  leechcraft  here. 
But  lift  me  hither  the  sweet  cross  to  kiss, 

And  witness  ye,  I  go  without  a  fear. 
Yea,  I  am  sped,  and  never  more  shall  see, 

As  once  I  dreamed,  the   show  of  shield  and 

crest, 

Gone  southward  to  the  fighting  by  the  sea ;  — 
There  is  no  bird  in  any  last  year's  nest ! 

Yea,  with  me  now  all  dreams  are  done,  I  ween, 
Grown  faint  and  unremembered  ;  voices  call 
High  up,  like  misty  warders  dimly  seen 

Moving  at  morn  on  some  Burgundian  wall ; 
And  all  things  swim — as  when  the  charger  stands 
Quivering  between  the  knees,  and  East  and 

West 
Are    filled   with    flash    of    scarves   and    waving 

hands  ;  — 

There  is  no  bird  in  any  last  year's  nest ! 
204 


THE  DYING  OF  TANNEGUY  DU  BOIS. 

Is  she  a  dream  I  left  in  Acquitaine  ?  — 

My  wife  Giselle,  — who  never  spoke  a  word, 
Although  I  knew  her  mouth  was  drawn  with  pain, 

Her  eyelids  hung  with  tears  ;    and  though  I 

heard 
The  strong  sob  shake  her  throat,  and  saw  the  cord 

Her  necklace  made  about  it ;  —  she  that  prest 
To  watch  me  trotting  till  I  reached  the  ford  ;  — 

There  is  no  bird  in  any  last  year's  nest ! 


Ah  !  I  had  hoped,  God  wot, — had  longed  that  she 

Should  watch  me  from  the  little-lit  tourelle, 
Me,  coming  riding  by  the  windy  lea  — 

Me,  coming  back  again  to  her,  Giselle ; 
Yea,  I  had  hoped  once  more  to  hear  him  call, 

The  curly-pate,  who,  rushen  lance  in  rest, 
Stormed  at  the  lilies  by  the  orchard  wall ;  — 

There  is  no  bird  in  any  last  year's  nest  I 


But  how,  my  Masters,  ye  are  wrapt  in  gloom  ! 

This  Death  will  come,  and  whom  he  loves  he 

cleaves 
Sheer  through  the  steel  and  leather ;  hating  whom 

He  smites  in  shameful  wise  behind  the  greaves. 
'Tis  a  fair  time  with  Dennis  and  the  Saints, 

And  weary  work  to  age,  and  want  for  rest, 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

When  harness  groweth  heavy,  and  one  faints, 
With  no  bird  left  in  any  last  year's  nest ! 

Give  ye  good  hap,  then,  all.     For  me,  I  lie 
Broken   in  Christ's  sweet  hand,  with  whom 
shall  rest 

To  keep  me  living,  now  that  I  must  die ;  — 
There  is  no  bird  in  any  last  year's  nest  I 


206 


THE  MOSQUE  OF  THE  CALIPH, 


THE    MOSQUE   OF  THE   CALIPH. 

T  T  NTO  Seyd  the  vizier  spake  the  Caliph  Ab- 
^  dallah :  — 

"  Now  hearken  and  hear,  I  am  weary,  by  Allah  ! 
I  am  faint  with  the  mere  over-running  of  leisure  ; 
I  will  rouse  me  and  rear  up  a  palace  to  Pleasure  I  " 


To  Abdallah  the  Caliph  spake  Seyd  the  vizier : 
"  All  faces  grow  pale  if  my  Lord  draweth  near  ; 
And  the  breath  of  his  mouth  not  a  mortal  shall 

scoff  it ;  — 
They  must  bend  and  obey,  by  the  beard  of  the 

Prophet  I " 


Then  the  Caliph  that  heard,  with  becoming  se- 

dateness, 
Drew  his  hand  down  his  beard  as  he  thought  of 

his  greatness  ; 
Drained  out  the  last  bead  of  the  wine  in   the 

chalice : 
"  I   have  spoken,  O  Seyd  ;   I  will  build  it,  my 

palace  ! 

207 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

"  As  a  drop  from  the  wine  where  the  wine-cup 

hath  spilled  it, 
As  a  gem  from  the  mine,  O  my  Seyd,  I  will  build 

it; 

Without  price,  without  flaw,  it  shall  stand  for  a 

token 
That  the  word  is  a  law  which  the  Caliph  hath 

spoken  I  " 


Yet  again  to  the  Caliph  bent  Seyd  the  vizier  : 
"  Who  shall  reason  or  rail  if  my  Lord  speaketh 

clear  ? 
Who  shall  strive  with  his  might  ?     Let  my  Lord 

live  for  ever  ! 
He  shall  choose  him  a  site  by  the  side  of  the 


Then  the   Caliph   sent   forth   unto    KUr,    unto 

Yemen,  — 
To  the  South,  to  the  North,  —  for  the  skilfullest 

freemen ; 
And  soon,  in  a  close,   where   the  river   breeze 

fanned  it, 
The  basement  uprose,  as  the  Caliph  had  planned 

it. 

20$ 


THE  MOSQUE  OF  THE  CALIPH. 

Now  the  courses  were  laid  and  the  corner-piece 

fitted ; 
And  the  hutments  and  set-stones  were  shapen 

and  knitted, 

When  lo  !  on  a  sudden  the  Caliph  heard  frowning, 
That  the  river  had   swelled,    and  the  workmen 

were  drowning. 

Then  the  Caliph  was  stirred  and  he  flushed  !n  his 

ire  as 

He  sent  forth  his  word  from  Teheran  to  Shiraz  ; 
And  the  workmen  came  new,  and   the    palace, 

built  faster, 
From  the  bases  up-grew  unto  arch  and  pilaster. 

And  the  groinings  were  traced,  and  the  arch-heads 
were  chasen, 

When  lo  1  in  hot  haste  there  came  flying  a  mason, 

For  a  cupola  fallen  had  whelmed  half  the  work- 
men ; 

And  Hamet  the  chief  had  been  slain  by  the  Turc'- 
men. 

Then  the  Caliph's  beard  curled,  and  he  foamed 

in  his  rage  as 
Once  more  his  scouts  whirled  from  the  Tell  to  the 

Hedjaz  ; 
VOL.  i.  — 14  209 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

"  Is  my  word  not  my  word  ? "  cried  the  Caliph 

Abdallah  ; 
"  I  will  build  it  up  yet  .  .  .  by  the  aiding  of 

Allah!" 


Though  he  spoke  in  his  haste  like  King  David 
before  him, 

Yet  he  felt  as  he  spoke  that  a  something  stole  o'er 
him  ; 

And  his  soul  grew  as  glass,  and  his  anger  passed 
from  it 

As  the  vapours  that  pass  from  the  Pool  of  Ma- 
homet. 


And  the  doom  seemed  to  hang  on  the  palace  no 

longer, 
Like  a  fountain  it  sprang  when  the  sources  feed 

stronger ; 

Shaft,  turret  and  spire  leaped  upward,  diminished, 
Like  the  flames  of  a  fire, —till  the  palace  was 

finished  ! 


Without  price,  without  flaw.     And  it  lay  on  the 

azure 
Like  a  diadem  dropped  from  an  emperor's  treasure; 

210 


THE  MOSQUE  OF  THE  CALIPH. 

And  the  dome  of  pearl  white  and  the  pinnacles 

fleckless, 
Flashed   back  to  the  light,  like  the  gems  in  a 

necklace. 

So  the  Caliph   looked  forth  on  the  turret-tops 

gilded  ; 
And   he  said  in  his  pride,  "  Is  my  palace  not 

builded  > 

Who  is  more  great  than  I  that  his  word  can  avail  if 
My  will  is  my  will," —  said  Abdallah  the  Caliph. 

But  lo  !  with  the  light  he  repented  his  scorning, 
For  an  earthquake  had  shattered  the  whole  ere 

the  morning ; 
Of  the  pearl-coloured  dome  there  was  left  but  a 

ruin, — 
But  an  arch  as  a  home  for  the  ring-dove  to  coo  in. 

Shaft,   turret   and  spire  —  all  were  tumbled  and 

crumbled  ; 
And  the   soul   of  the   Caliph  within    him    was 

humbled  ; 
And  he  bowed  in  the  dust:  —  "There  is  none 

great  but  Allah  ! 
I  will  build  Him  a  Mosque,"  —  said  the  Caliph 

Abdallah. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

And  the  Caliph  has  gone  to  his  fathers  for  ever, 
But  the  Mosque  that  he  builded  shines  still  by 

the  river ; 
And  the  pilgrims  up-stream  to  this  day  slacken 

sail  if 
They  catch  the  first  gleam  of  the  "  Mosque  of 

the  Caliph." 


IN  THE  BELFRY. 
IN   THE   BELFRY. 

WRITTEN    UNDER   RETHEI/S    "  DEATH,  THE   FRIEND. 

'"POLL  !     Is  it  night,  or  daylight  yet? 

Somewhere  the  birds  seem  singing  still, 
Though  surely  now  the  sun  has  set. 

Toll  I     But  who  tolls  the  Bell  once  more  ? 
He  must  have  climbed  the  parapet. 
Did  I  not  bar  the  belfry  door  ? 

Who  can  it  be  ?  —  the  Bernardine, 
That  wont  to  pray  with  me  of  yore  > 
No,  —  for  the  monk  was  not  so  lean. 

This  must  be  He  who,  legend  saith, 
Comes  sometimes  with  a  kindlier  mien 
And  tolls  a  knell.  — This  shape  is  Death  1 

Good-bye,  old  Bell  1     So  let  it  be. 
How  strangely  now  I  draw  my  breath  I 
What  is  this  haze  of  light  I  see  ? ... 

IN   MANUS   TUAS,    DOM1NE  1 

213 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

ARS   VICTRIX. 

(IMITATED  FROM  TH£OPHILE  GAUTIER.) 

\/ES  5  wnen  the  waYs  oppose  — 
When  the  hard  means  rebel, 
Fairer  the  work  out-grows,  — 
More  potent  far  the  spell. 

O  POET,  then,  forbear 
The  loosely-sandalled  verse, 

Choose  rather  thou  to  wear 
The  buskin  —  strait  and  terse; 


Leave  to  the  tyro's  hand 

The  limp  and  shapeless  style  ; 
See  that  thy  form  demand 

The  labour  of  the  file. 


SCULPTOR,  do  thou  discard 
The  yielding  clay,  —  consign 

To  Paros  marble  hard 

The  beauty  of  thy  line  ;  — 
214 


4RS   VICTRIX. 

Model  thy  Satyr's  face 
For  bronze  of  Syracuse  ; 

In  the  veined  agate  trace 
The  profile  of  thy  Muse. 


PAINTER,  that  still  must  mix 
But  transient  tints  anew, 

Thou  in  the  furnace  fix 
The  firm  enamel's  hue ; 


Let  the  smooth  tile  receive 
Thy  dove-drawn  Erycine ; 

Thy  Sirens  blue  at  eve 
Coiled  in  a  wash  of  wine. 


All  passes.     ART  alone 
Enduring  stays  to  us  ; 

The  Bust  out-lasts  the  throne,- 
The  Coin,  Tiberius ; 


Even  the  gods  must  go ; 

Only  the  lofty  Rhyme 
Not  countless  years  o'erthrow, 

Not  long  array  of  time. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

Paint,  chisel,  then,  or  write  ; 

But,  that  the  work  surpass, 
With  the  hard  fashion  fight,  — 

With  the  resisting  mass. 


216 


ESSAYS   IN   OLD   FRENCH   FORMS. 

"  They  are  a  school  to  win 
The  fair  French  daughter  to  learn  English  in ; 

And,  graced  with  her  song, 
To  make  the  language  sweet  upon  her  tongue." 

BEN  JONSON,  Underwoods. 


217 


As,  to  the  pipe,  with  rhythmic  feet 
In  windings  of  some  old-world  dance, 
The  smiling  couples  cross  and  meet, 
Join  hands,  and  then  in  line  advance, 
So,  to  these  fair  old  tunes  of  France, 
Through  all  their  maze  of  to  and  fro, 
The  light-heeled  numbers  laughing  go, 
Retreat,  return,  and  ere  they  flee, 
One  moment  pause  in  panting  row, 
And  seem  to  say  —  Vos  plaudite  1 


218 


ROSE-LEAVES. 

"  Sans  peser.  —  Sans  rester 


A  KISS. 
"D  OSE  kissed  me  to-day. 

Will  she  kiss  me  to-morrow  ? 
Let  it  be  as  it  may, 
Rose  kissed  me  to-day. 
But  the  pleasure  gives  way 

To  a  savour  of  sorrow  ;  — 
Rose  kissed  me  to-day,  — 
Will  she  kiss  me  to-morrow  ? 


CIRCE. 

IN  the  School  of  Coquettes 

Madam  Rose  is  a  scholar  :  — 
O,  they  fish  with  all  nets 
In  the  School  of  Coquettes  1 
When  her  brooch  she  forgets 

'Tis  to  show  her  new  collar; 
In  the  School  of  Coquettes 
Madam  Rose  is  a  scholar  ! 
219 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 
A  TEAR. 

THERE  's  a  tear  in  her  eye,  — 
Such  a  clear  little  jewel  1 

What  can  make  her  cry  ? 

There 's  a  tear  in  her  eye. 

41  Puck  has  killed  a  big  fly,  — 
And  it 's  horribly  cruel  ;  " 

There 's  a  tear  in  her  eye,  — 
Such  a  clear  little  jewel  1 


A   GREEK   GIFT. 

HERE  's  a  present  for  Rose, 
How  pleased  she  is  looking  1 

Is  it  verse  ?  —  is  it  prose  ? 

Here  's  a  present  for  Rose  ! 

"  Plats"  "  Entries,"  and  "£dte,"  — 
Why,  it 's  "  Gouffe"  on  Cooking  "  I 

Here  's  a  present  for  Rose, 
How  pleased  she  is  looking  ! 


"  URCEUS    EXIT. 

I  INTENDED  an  Ode, 

And  it  turned  to  a  Sonnet. 
It  began  a  la  mode, 
I  intended  an  Ode  ; 
220 


ROSE-LEASES. 

But  Rose  crossed  the  road 
In  her  latest  new  bonnet  ; 

I  intended  an  Ode  ; 
And  it  turned  to  a  Sonnet. 


221 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 


"PERSICOS    GDI." 

TTJAVUS,  I  detest 

Orient  display ; 
Wreaths  on  linden  drest, 
Davus,  I  detest. 
Let  the  late  rose  rest 

Where  it  fades  away :  — 
Davus,  I  detest 

Orient  display. 

Naught  but  myrtle  twine 
Therefore,  Boy,  for  me 

Sitting  'neath  the  vine,  — 

Naught  but  myrtle  twine  ; 

Fitting  to  the  wine, 
Not  unfitting  thee ; 

Naught  but  myrtle  twine 
Therefore,  Boy,  for  me. 


THE  WANDERER. 


THE  WANDERER. 


T    OVE  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling,  — 
The  old,  old  Love  that  we  knew  of  yore  ! 
We  see  him  stand  by  the  open  door, 
With  his  great  eyes  sad,  and  his  bosom  swelling. 

He  makes  as  though  in  our  arms  repelling, 
He  fain  would  lie  as  he  lay  before  ;  — 

Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling,  — 
The  old,  old  Love  that  we  knew  of  yore  1 

Ah,  who  shall  help  us  from  over-spelling 
That  sweet  forgotten,  forbidden  lore  1 
E'en  as  we  doubt  in  our  heart  once  more, 
With  a  rush  of  tears  to  our  eyelids  welling, 
Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling. 


223 


ESS  A  YS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 


"VITAS   HINNULEO." 

"W'OU  shun  me,  Chloe,  wild  and  shy 

As  some  stray  fawn  that  seeks  its  mother 
Through  trackless  woods.    If  spring-winds  sigh, 
It  vainly  strives  its  fears  to  smother  ;  — 

Its  trembling  knees  assail  each  other 
When  lizards  stir  the  bramble  dry  ;  — 
You  shun  me,  Chloe,  wild  and  shy 

As  some  stray  fawn  that  seeks  its  mother. 

And  yet  no  Libyan  lion  I,  — 

No  ravening  thing  to  rend  another  ; 

Lay  by  your  tears,  your  tremors  by  — 
A  Husband's  better  than  a  brother; 

Nor  shun  me,  Chloe,  wild  and  shy 
As  some  stray  fawn  that  seeks  its  mother. 


224 


"ON  LONDON  STONES." 


"ON    LONDON   STONES." 

/^\N   London  stones  I  sometimes  sigh 
^"^     For  wider  green  and  bluer  sky  ;  — 
Too  oft  the  trembling  note  is  drowned 
In  this  huge  city's  varied  sound  ;  — 
"  Pure  song  is  country-born"  —  I  cry. 

Then  comes  the  spring,  —  the  months  go  by, 
The  last  stray  swallows  seaward  fly ; 
And  I  —  I  too  !  —  no  more  am  found 
On  London  stones  1 

In  vain!  —  the  woods,  the  fields  deny 
That  clearer  strain  I  fain  would  try ; 
Mine  is  an  urban  Muse,  and  bound 
By  some  strange  law  to  paven  ground ; 
Abroad  she  pouts  ;  —  she  is  not  shy 
On  London  stones  1 

VOL.  I.  — IS 


225 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 


"FAREWELL,    RENOWN!" 

T7AREWELL,  Renown  !     Too  fleeting  flower, 
That  grows  a  year  to  last  an  hour ;  — 

Prize  of  the  race's  dust  and  heat, 

Too  often  trodden  under  feet,  — 
Why  should  I  court  your  "  barren  dower"  ? 

Nay  ;  —  had  I  Dryden's  angry  power,  — 
The  thews  of  Ben,  — the  wind  of  Gower, — 
Not  less  my  voice  should  still  repeat 
"  Farewell,  Renown  ! " 

Farewell !  —  Because  the  Muses'  bower 
Is  filled  with  rival  brows  that  lower  ;  — 
Because,  howe'er  his  pipe  be  sweet, 
The  Bard,  that  "pays,"  must  please  the  street ;  — 
But  most  .  .  .  because  the  grapes  are  sour,  — 
Farewell,  Renown  I 


226 


"MORE  POETS   YET!" 

"MORE   POETS   YET!" 
(To  J.  L.  W.) 

1VI ORE  Poets  yet ! "~ l  hear  him  say> 

Arming  his  heavy  hand  to  slay  ;  — 
"  Despite  my  skill  and  '  swashing  blow,' 
They  seem  to  sprout  where'er  I  go  ;  — 
I  killed  a  host  but  yesterday  I  " 

Slash  on,  O  Hercules  I     You  may. 
Your  task 's,  at  best,  a  Hydra-fray ; 
And  though  you  cut,  not  less  will  grow 
More  Poets  yet  1 

Too  arrogant !     For  who  shall  stay 
The  first  blind  motions  of  the  May  ? 

Who  shall  out-blot  the  morning  glow  ?  — 
Or  stem  the  full  heart's  overflow  ? 
Who  ?    There  will  rise,  till  Time  decay, 
More  Poets  yet  1 


227 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

"WITH    PIPE   AND    FLUTE." 
(To  E.  G.) 

YX  7ITH  pipe  and  flute  the  rustic  Pan 

Of  old  made  music  sweet  for  man  ; 
And  wonder  hushed  the  warbling  bird, 
And  closer  drew  the  calm-eyed Jierd,  — 

The  rolling  river  slowlier  ran. 

Ah  1  would, — ah  !  would,  a  little  span, 
Some  air  of  Arcady  could  fan 

This  age  of  ours,  too  seldom  stirred 
With  pipe  and  flute  1 

But  now  for  gold  we  plot  and  plan  ; 

And  from  Beersheba  unto  Dan, 
Apollo's  self  might  pass  unheard, 
Or  find  the  night-jar's  note  preferred  ;  — 

Not  so  it  fared,  when  time  began, 

With  pipe  and  flute  I 


228 


TO  A  JUNE  ROSE. 

TO   A  JUNE   ROSE. 
(To  A.  P.) 

(~\  ROYAL  Rose  1  the  Roman  dress'd 
^^^      His  feast  with  thee  ;  thy  petals  press'd 
Augustan  brows  ;  thine  odour  fine, 
Mix'd  with  the  three-times-mingled  wine, 
Lent  the  long  Thracian  draught  its  zest. 

What  marvel  then,  if  host  and  guest, 
By  Song,  by  Joy,  by  Thee  caress'd, 
Half-trembled  on  the  half-divine, 
O  royal  Rose  1 

And  yet  —  and  yet — I  love  thee  best 

In  our  old  gardens  of  the  West, 
Whether  about  my  thatch  thou  twine, 
Or  Hers,  that  brown-eyed  maid  of  mine, 

Who  lulls  thee  on  her  lawny  breast, 
O  royal  Rose ! 


229 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

TO    DAFFODILS. 
(To  A.  J.  M.) 

r\  YELLOW  flowers  that  HERRICK  sung! 

^^^  O  yellow  flowers  that  danced  and  swung 
In  WORDSWORTH'S  verse,  and  now  to  me, 
Unworthy,  from  this  "  pleasant  lea," 

Laugh  back,  unchanged  and  ever  young  ;  — 

Ah,  what  a  text  to  us  o'erstrung, 
O'erwrought,  o'erreaching,  hoarse  of  lung, 
You  teach  by  that  immortal  glee, 
O  yellow  flowers  ! 

We,  by  the  Age's  oestrus  stung, 
Still  hunt  the  New  with  eager  tongue, 
Vexed  ever  with  the  Old,  but  ye, 
What  ye  have  been  ye  still  shall  be, 
When  we  are  dust  the  dust  among, 
O  yellow  flowers  1 


230 


ON  THE  HURRY  OF  THIS   TIME. 

ON   THE   HURRY   OF  THIS  TIME. 
(To  F.  G.) 

"\"\  7"ITH  slower  pen  men  used  to  write, 

Of  old,  when  "  letters  "  were  "polite;1 
In  ANNA'S,  or  in  GEORGE'S  days, 
They  could  afford  to  turn  a  phrase, 

Or  trim  a  straggling  theme  aright. 

They  knew  not  steam  ;  electric  light 
Not  yet  had  dazed  their  calmer  sight ;  — 
They  meted  out  both  blame  and  praise 
With  slower  pen. 

Too  swiftly  now  the  Hours  take  flight! 

What 's  read  at  morn  is  dead  at  night : 
Scant  space  have  we  for  Art's  delays, 
Whose  breathless  thought  so  briefly  stays, 

We  may  not  work  —  ah  I  would  we  might  1  — • 
With  slower  pen. 


231 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

"WHEN    BURBADGE   PLAYED." 
(To  L.  B.) 

V\7"HEN  Burbadge  played,  the  stage  was  bare 
Of  fount  and  temple,  tower  and  stair  ; 

Two  backswords  eked  a  battle  out  ; 

Two  supers  made  a  rabble  rout ; 
The  Throne  of  Denmark  was  a  chair  I 

And  yet,  no  less,  the  audience  there 
Thrilled  through  all  changes  of  Despair, 
Hope,  Anger,  Fear,  Delight,  and  Doubt 
When  Burbadge  played  I 

This  is  the  Actor's  gift ;  to  share 

All  moods,  all  passions,  nor  to  care 
One  whit  for  scene,  so  he  without 
Can  lead  men's  minds  the  roundabout, 

Stirred  as  of  old  those  hearers  were 
When  Burbadge  played  I 


232 


A  GREETING. 

A   GREETING. 
(To  W.  C.) 

T)  UT  once  or  twice  we  met,  touched  hands. 
To-day  between  us  both  expands 

A  waste  of  tumbling  waters  wide, — 

A  waste  by  me  as  yet  untried, 
Vague  with  the  doubt  of  unknown  lands. 

Time  like  a  despot  speeds  his  sands : 
A  year  he  blots,  a  day  he  brands  ; 
We  walked,  we  talked  by  Thamis'  side 
But  once  or  twice. 

What  makes  a  friend  ?    What  filmy  strands 

Are  these  that  turn  to  iron  bands  ? 
What  knot  is  this  so  firmly  tied 
That  naught  but  Fate  can  now  divide  ?  — 

Ah,  these  are  things  one  understands 
But  once  or  twice  I 


233 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

AFTER  WATTEAU. 
(To  F.  W.) 

"£MBARQUONS-NOUS!"  I  seem  to  go 

Against  my  will.     'Neath  alleys  low 
I  bend,  and  hear  across  the  air  — 
Across  the  stream  —  faint  music  rare, — 
Whose  "  cornemuse,"  whose  "  chalumeau  "  ? 

Hark  !  was  not  that  a  laugh  I  know  ? 
Who  was  it,  hurrying,  turned  to  show 
The  galley  swinging  by  the  stair  ?  — 
"  Embarquons-nous  I " 

The  silk  sail  flaps,  light  breezes  blow  ; 

Frail  laces  flutter,  satins  flow  ; 
You,  with  the  love-knot  in  your  hair, 
"  Allans,  embarquons  pour  Cythbre  "  ; 

You  will  not  ?     Press  her,  then,  Pierrot,  — 
"  Embarquons-nous  I " 


234 


TO  ETHEL 


TO   ETHEL. 

(Who  wishes  she  had  lived 

"In  teacup-times  of 'hood and hoop, 
Or  while  the  patch  was  worn") 

"  T  N  teacup-times  I  "    The  style  of  dress 
Would  suit  your  beauty,  I  confess  ; 
BELiNDA-like,  the  patch  you  'd  wear ; 
I  picture  you  with  powdered  hair,  — 
You  'd  make  a  charming  Shepherdess  1 

And  I  — no  doubt  — could  well  express 
SIR  PLUME'S  complete  conceitedness, — 
Could  poise  a  clouded  cane  with  care 
"In  teacup-times ! " 

The  parts  would  fit  precisely  —  yes: 
We  should  achieve  a  huge  success  1 
You  should  disdain,  and  I  despair, 
With  quite  the  true  Augustan  air  ; 
But  .  .  .  could  I  love  you  more,  or  less, — 
"  In  teacup-times"? 


235 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 


"O    FONS   BANDUSI.E." 

f~\  BABBLING  Spring,  than  glass  more  clear, 
^^^  Worthy  of  wreath  and  cup  sincere, 

To-morrow  shall  a  kid  be  thine 

With  swelled  and  sprouting  brows  for  sign,  — 
Sure  sign  1  —  of  loves  and  battles  near. 

Child  of  the  race  that  butt  and  rear  I 
Not  less,  alas  1  his  life-blood  dear 
Must  tinge  thy  cold  wave  crystalline, 
O  babbling  Spring  1 

Thee  Sirius  knows  not.     Thou  dost  cheer 
With  pleasant  cool  the  plough-worn  steer,  — 
The  wandering  flock.     This  verse  of  mine 
Will  rank  thee  one  with  founts  divine  ; 
Men  shall  thy  rock  and  tree  revere, 

O  babbling  Spring ! 


236 


EXTREMUM  TANAIN. 

"EXTREMUM   TANAIN." 
(To  J.  K.) 

"D  EFORE  thy  doors  too  long  of  late, 

O  Lyce,  I  bewail  my  fate  ; 
Not  Don's  barbarian  maids,  I  trow, 
Would  treat  their  luckless  lovers  so  ; 

Thou,  —  thou  alone  art  obstinate. 

Hast  thou  nor  eyes  nor  ears,  Ingrate  1 
Hark  !  how  the  NORTH  WIND  shakes  thy  gate  1 
Look  I  how  the  laurels  bend  with  snow 
Before  thy  doors  1 

Lay  by  thy  pride,  — nor  hesitate, 

Lest  Love  and  I  grow  desperate ; 
If  prayers,  if  gifts  for  naught  must  go, 
If  naught  my  frozen  pallor  show, — 

Beware  1  ....  I  shall  not  always  wait 
Before  thy  doors  1 


237 


ESSAYS  IN   OLD  FRENCH 


"VIXI    PUELLIS." 

\~\  TE  loved  of  yore,  in  warfare  bold, 

Nor  laurelless.     Now  all  must  go ; 
Let  this  left  wall  of  Venus  show 
The  arms,  the  tuneless  lyre  of  old. 

Here  let  them  hang,  the  torches  cold, 
The  portal-bursting  bar,  the  bow, 
We  loved  of  yore. 

But  thou,  who  Cyprus  sweet  dost  hold, 
And  Memphis  free  from  Thracian  snow, 
Goddess  and  queen,  with  vengeful  blow, 

Smite,  —  smite  but  once  that  pretty  scold 
We  loved  of  yore  1 


"  WHEN  I  SAW  YOU  LAST,  ROSE." 


WHEN    I   SAW  YOU    LAST,   ROSE.' 

"117  HEN  I  saw  you  last,  Rose, 
You  were  only  so  high  ;  — 
How  fast  the  time  goes  1 


Like  a  bud  ere  it  blows, 
You  just  peeped  at  the  sky, 
When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose  I 


Now  your  petals  unclose, 
Now  your  May-time  is  nigh  ;• 
How  fast  the  time  goes  1 


And  a  life,  — how  it  grows  I 
You  were  scarcely  so  shy, 
When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose  I 


In  your  bosom  it  shows 
There  's  a  guest  on  the  sly; 
(How  fast  the  time  goes  !) 
239 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

Is  it  Cupid  ?    Who  knows  ! 
Yet  you  used  not  to  sigh, 
When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose  ;  — 
How  fast  the  time  goes  I 


240 


ON  A  NANKIN  PLATE. 


ON    A    NANKIN    PLATE. 

"AH  me,  but  it  might  have  been  1 

Was  there  ever  so  dismal  a  fate  ?"— 
Quoth  the  little  blue  mandarin. 


"  Such  a  maid  as  was  never  seen  I 
She  passed,  tho'  I  cried  to  her  '  Wait,'- 
Ah  me,  but  it  might  have  been  1 


"  I  cried,  '  O  my  Flower,  my  Queen, 
Be  mine  I '     'Twas  precipitate,"  — 
Quoth  the  little  blue  mandarin, — 


"  But  then  .  .  she  was  just  sixteen, — 
Long-eyed,  —  as  a  lily  straight, — 
Ah  me,  but  it  might  have  been  1 


"  As  it  was,  from  her  palankeen, 

She  laughed  —  '  You  Ye  a  week  too  late  ! 

(Quoth  the  little  blue  mandarin.) 

VOL.  i.  —  16  241 


ESS  A  YS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

"  That  is  why,  in  a  mist  of  spleen, 
I  mourn  on  this  Nankin  Plate. 
Ah  me,  but  it  might  have  been  !  "  — 
Quoth  the  little  blue  mandarin. 


242 


FOR  A  COPY  OF  THEOCRITUS. 


FOR   A   COPY   OF  THEOCRITUS. 

r\  SINGER  of  the  field  and  fold, 

THEOCRITUS  1     Pan's  pipe  was  thine, 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 


For  thee  the  scent  of  new-turned  mould, 
The  bee-hives,  and  the  murmuring  pine, 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold  1 


Thou  sang'st  the  simple  feasts  of  old,  — 
The  beechen  bowl  made  glad  with  wine 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 


Thou  bad'st  the  rustic  loves  be  told,  — 
Thou  bad'st  the  tuneful  reeds  combine, 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold  1 


And  round  thee,  ever-laughing,  rolled 
The  blithe  and  blue  Sicilian  brine  .  . 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 
243 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

Alas  for  us  !     Our  songs  are  cold  ; 
Our  Northern  suns  too  sadly  shine  :  - 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold, 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold  ! 


244 


"  TU  NE  QUAESIERIS: 


"TU    NE  QUAESIERIS." 

C  EEK  not,  O  Maid,  to  know 
(Alas  I  unblest  the  trying  1) 
When  thou  and  I  must  go. 


No  lore  of  stars  can  show. 
What  shall  be,  vainly  prying,    : 
Seek  not,  O  Maid,  to  know. 


Will  Jove  long  years  bestow  ?  — 
Or  is  't  with  this  one  dying, 
That  thou  and  I  must  go, 


Now,  —  when  the  great  winds  blow, 
And  waves  the  reef  are  plying  ?  .  . 
Seek  not,  O  Maid,  to  know. 


Rather  let  clear  wine  flow, 
On  no  vain  hope  relying; 
When  thou  and  I  must  go 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

Lies  dark  ;  —  then  be  it  so. 
Now,  —  now,  churl  Time  is  flying: 
Seek  not,  O  Maid,  to  know 
When  thou  and  I  must  go. 


346 


THE  PRODIGALS. 


THE   PRODIGALS. 

"T)R?NCES  !  —  and  you,  most  valorous, 

Nobles  and  Barons  of  all  degrees  I 
Hearken  awhile  to  the  prayer  of  us,  — 
Beggars  that  come  from  the  over-seas  I 
Nothing  we  ask  or  of  gold  or  fees  ; 
Harry  us  not  with  the  hounds  we  pray; 

Lo,  —  for  the  surcote's  hem  we  seize, — 
Give  us  —  ah  1  give  us  —  but  Yesterday  1 " 


"  Dames  most  delicate,  amorous  I 
Damosels  blithe  as  the  belted  bees  1 

Hearken  awhile  to  the  prayer  of  us,  — 
Beggars  that  come  from  the  over-seas  I 
Nothing  we  ask  of  the  things  that  please  ;  ' 

Weary  are  we,  and  worn,  and  gray ; 

Lo,  —  for  we   clutch   and    we    clasp    your 
knees,  — 

Give  us  —  ah  I  give  us  —  but  Yesterday  1 " 

k<  Damosels —  Dames,  be  piteous  !  " 

(But  the  dames  rode  fast  by  the  roadway 
trees.) 

247 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

"  Hear  us,  O  Knights  magnanimous  !  " 

(But  the  knights  pricked  on  in  their  pano- 
plies.) 
Nothing  they  gat  or  of  hope  or  ease, 

But  only  to  beat  on  the  breast  and  say  :  — 
"  Life  we  drank  to  the  dregs  and  lees ; 

Give  us  —  ah  I  give  us  —  but  Yesterday  1 " 


ENVOY. 

YOUTH,  take  heed  to  the  prayer  of  these  1 
Many  there  be  by  the  dusty  way,  — 

Many  that  cry  to  the  rocks  and  seas 
"  Give  us  —  ah  !  give  us  —  but  Yesterday  1 ' 


248 


ON  A  FAN. 


ON  A  FAN  THAT  BELONGED  TO  THE 
MARQUISE  DE  POMPADOUR. 

/CHICKEN-SKIN,  delicate,  white, 
V>"     Painted  by  Carlo  Vanloo, 
Loves  in  a  riot  of  light, 

Roses  and  vaporous  blue  ; 

Hark  to  the  dainty  frou-frou,! 
Picture  above,  if  you  can, 

Eyes  that  could  melt  as  the  dew,  — 
This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan  ! 


See  how  they  rise  at  the  sight, 
Thronging  the  CEil  de  Bceuf  through, 

Courtiers  as  butterflies  bright, 
Beauties  that  Fragonard  drew, 
Talon-rouge,  falbala,  queue, 

Cardinal,  Duke, — to  a  man, 
Eager  to  sigh  or  to  sue,  — 

This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan ! 


Ah,  but  things  more  than  polite 
Hung  on  this  toy,  voye\-vous! 
249 


ESSA  YS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

Matters  of  state  and  of  might, 
Things  that  great  ministers  do  ;   : 
Things  that,  may  be,  overthrew 

Those  in  whose  brains  they  began  ; 
Here  was  the  sign  and  the  cue, — 

This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan  1 


ENVOY. 

WHERE  are  the  secrets  it  knew  ? 

Weavings  of  plot  and  of  plan  ? 
—  But  where  is  the  Pompadour,  too  ? 

This  was  the  Pompadour's  Fan  I 


250 


A  BALLAD   TO  QUEEN  ELIZABETH. 


A   BALLAD  TO   QUEEN    ELIZABETH 
of  the  Spanish  Armada. 

IX"  ING  PHILIP  had  vaunted  his  claims; 

He  had  sworn  for  a  year  he  would  sack  us; 
With  an  army  of  heathenish  names 

He  was  coming  to  fagot  and  stack  us  ; 

Like  the  thieves  of  the  sea  he  would  track  us, 
And  shatter  our  ships  on  the  main  ; 

But  we  had  bold  Neptune  to  back  us, — 
And  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain  ? 


His  carackes  were  christened  of  dames 
To  the  kirtles  whereof  he  would  tack  us ; 

With  his  saints  and  his  gilded  stern-frames, 
He  had  thought  like  an  egg-shell  to  crack  us 
Now  Howard  may  get  to  his  Flaccus, 

And  Drake  to  his  Devon  again, 

And  Hawkins  bowl  rubbers  to  Bacchus,  — 

For  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain  ? 


Let  his  Majesty  hang  to  St.  James 
The  axe  that  he  whetted  to  hack  us  ; 

251 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

He  must  play  at  some  lustier  games 
Or  at  sea  he  can  hope  to  out-thwack  us ; 
To  his  mines  of  Peru  he  would  pack  us 

To  tug  at  his  bullet  and  chain ; 

Alas !  that  his  Greatness  should  lack  us  !  • 

But  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain  ? 


ENVOY. 

GLORIANA  1  —  the  Don  may  attack  us 
Whenever  his  stomach  be  fain  ; 

He  must  reach  us  before  he  can  rack  us, 
And  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain  ? 


252 


A  BALLAD  OF  HEROES. 


A   BALLAD   OF    HEROES. 

"  Now  all  your  victories  are  in  vain." 

MARY  F.  ROBINSON. 

ID  ECAUSE  you  passed,  and  now  are  not,  — 
Because,  in  some  remoter  day, 

Your  sacred  dust  from  doubtful  spot 
Was  blown  of  ancient  airs  away,  — 
Because  you  perished,  — must  men  say 

Your  deeds  were  naught,  and  so  profane 
Your  lives  with  that  cold  burden  ?     Nay, 

The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain  I 


Though,  it  may  be,  above  the  plot 
That  hid  your  once  imperial  clay, 

No  greener  than  o'er  men  forgot 
The  unregarding  grasses  sway  ;  — 
Though  there  no  sweeter  is  the  lay 

From  careless  bird, — though  you  remain 
Without  distinction  of  decay,  — 

The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain  ! 

No.     For  while  yet  in  tower  or  coi 
Your  story  stirs  the  pulses'  play ; 
253 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

And  men  forget  the  sordid  lot  — 
The  sordid  care,  of  cities  gray  ;  — 
While  yet,  beset  in  homelier  fray, 

They  learn  from  you  the  lesson  plain 
That  Life  may  go,  so  Honour  stay, — 

The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain  1 


ENVOY. 

HEROES  of  old  !     I  humbly  lay 
The  laurel  on  your  graves  again  ; 

Whatever  men  have  done,  men  may, — 
The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain. 


2  54 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  THRUSH. 


THE   BALLAD  OF  THE  THRUSH. 

A  CROSS  the  noisy  street 

I  hear  him  careless  throw 
One  warning  utterance  sweet ; 
Then  faint  at  first,  and  low, 
The  full  notes  closer  grow  ; 
Hark  !  what  a  torrent  gush  I 

They  pour,  they  overflow  — 
Sing  on,  sing  on,  O  Thrush  1 


What  trick,  what  dream's  deceit 
Has  fooled  his  fancy  so 

To  scorn  of  dust  and  heat  ? 
I,  prisoned  here  below, 
Feel  the  fresh  breezes  blow ; 

And  see,  thro'  flag  and  rush, 
Cool  water  sliding  slow  — 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  O  Thrush  1 

Sing  on.     What  though  thou  beat 
On  that  dull  bar,  thy  foe  ! 

Somewhere  the  green  boughs  meet 
Beyond  the  roofs  a-row  ; 
•       255 


ESS  A  YS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

Somewhere  the  blue  skies  show, 
Somewhere  no  black  walls  crush 

Poor  hearts  with  hopeless  woe  — 
Sing  on,  sing  on,  O  Thrush  1 

ENVOY. 
BIRD,  though  they  come,  we  know, 

The  empty  cage,  the  hush; 
Still,  ere  the  brief  day  go, 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  O  Thrush  1 


256 


THE  BALL4D   OF  THE  BARMECIDE. 


THE   BALLAD  OF  THE  BARMECIDE. 

H^O  one  in  Eastern  clime,  — 'tis  said,  — 
There  came  a  man  at  eve  with  "  Lo  1 

Friend,  ere  the  day  be  dimmed  and  dead, 
Hast  thou  a  mind  to  feast,  and  know 
Fair  cates,  and  sweet  wine's  overflow?" 

To  whom  that  other  fain  replied  — 

"  Lead  on.     Not  backward  I  nor  slow  ;  — 

Where  is  thy  feast,  O  Barmecide?" 


Thereon  the  bidder  passed  and  led 
To  where,  apart  from  dust  and  glow, 

They  found  a  board  with  napery  spread, 
And  gold,  and  glistering  cups  a-row. 

"  Eat,"  quoth  the  host,  yet  naught  did  show. 

To  whom  his  guest —  "  Thy  board  is  wide  ; 
But  barren  is  the  cheer,  I  trow  ; 

Where  is  thy  feast,  O  Barmecide  ? " 


"  Eat,"  quoth  the  man  not  less,  and  fed 
From  meats  unseen,  and  made  as  though 

VOL.  I.— I?  257 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

He  drank  of  wine  both  white  and  red. 

"  Eat,  —  ere  the  day  to  darkness  grow. 

Short  space  and  scant  the  Fates  bestow  1 
"What  time  his  guest  him  wondering  eyed, 

Muttering  in  wrath  his  beard  below  — 
*'  Where  is  thy  feast,  O  Barmecide  ?" 

ENVOY. 
LIFE,  — 'tis  of  thee  they  fable  so. 

Thou  bidd'st  us  eat,  and  still  denied, 
Still  fasting,  from  thy  board  we  go  :  — 

"Where  is  thy  feast,  O  Barmecide?" 


'5* 


THE  BALLAD  OF  IMITATION. 


THE    BALLAD   OF    IMITATION. 

C'est  imiter  quelqu'un  que  de planter  des  choux." 

ALFRED  DE  MUSSET. 

TF  they  hint,  O  Musician,  the  piece  that  you 

played 

Is  nought  but  a  copy  of  Chopin  or  Spohr; 
That  the  ballad  you  sing  is  but  merely  "con- 
veyed " 
From  the  stock  of  the  Ames  and  the  Purcells 

of  yore  ; 
That  there 's  nothing,  in  short,  in  the  words  or 

the  score 
That   is   not   as   out-worn   as   the    "Wandering 

Jew" ; 
Make  answer — Beethoven  could  scarcely  do 

more  — 
That  the  man  who  plants  cabbages  imitates,  too  I 

If  they  tell  you,  Sir  Artist,  your  light  and  your 

shade 

Are  simply  "  adapted  "  from  other  men's  lore  ; 
That  —  plainly   to    speak   of   a    "  spade "   as   a 

"  spade  "  — 

You  've  "  stolen  "  your  grouping  from  three  or 
from  four ; 

259 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

That   (however  the  writer  the  truth  may  de- 
plore) , 
'Twas  Gainsborough  painted  your  "  Little    Boy 

Blue"; 

Smile  only  serenely  —  though  cut  to  the  core  — 
For  the  man  who  plants  cabbages  imitates,  too  ! 

And  you  too,  my  Poet,  be  never  dismayed 

If   they   whisper    your    Epic  —  "Sir    Eperon 

d'Or"  — 
Is  nothing  but  Tennyson  thinly  arrayed 

In  a  tissue  that 's  taken  from  Morris's  store; 

That  no  one,  in  fact,  but  a  child  could  ignore 

That   you    "lift"   or   "accommodate"   all    that 

you  do  ; 
Take  heart — though  your  Pegasus'  withers  be 

sore  — 
For  the  man  who  plants  cabbages  imitates,  too  I 


POSTSCRIPTUM.  —  And  you,  whom  we  all  so  adore, 
Dear   Critics,  whose  verdicts   are  always   so 

new  I  — 
One   word   in   your   ear.      There   were   Critics 

before  .  .  . 
And  the  man  who  plants  cabbages  imitates,  too  ! 

200 


THE  BALLAD   OF  PROSE  AND  RHYME. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  PROSE  AND  RHYME. 

"\  ~\  7 HEN  the  ways  are  heavy  with  mire  and  rut, 

In  November  fogs,  in  December  snows, 
When  the  North  Wind  howls,  and  the  doors  are 

shut, — 
There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of 

prose ; 
But   whenever  a   scent   from   the  whitethorn 

blows, 
And  the  jasmine-stars  at  the  casement  climb, 

And  a  Rosalind-face  at  the  lattice  shows, 
Then  hey  !  —  for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme  I 


When  the  brain  gets  dry  as  an  empty  nut, 

When  the  reason  stands  on  its  squarest  toes, 
When   the  mind    (like  a  beard)   has  a  "formal 

cut,"  — 
There   is   place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of 

prose  ; 

But  whenever  the  May-blood  stirs  and  glows, 

And  the  young  year  draws  to  the  "golden  prime," 

261 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

And  Sir  Romeo  sticks  in  his  ear  a  rose, — 
Then  hey  1  —  for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme  \ 

In  a  theme  where  the  thoughts  have  a  pedant- 
strut, 

In  a  changing  quarrel  of  "Ayes  "  and  "  Noes," 
In  a  starched  procession  of  "  If"  and  "  But,"  — 

There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of 
prose  ; 

But  whenever  a  soft  glance  softer  grows 
And  the  light  hours  dance  to  the  trysting-time, 

And  the  secret  is  told  "  that  no  one  knows,"  — 
Then  hey  !  —  for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme  ! 

ENVOY. 

IN    the  work-a-day  world,  —  for   its   needs  and 

woes, 

There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose  ; 
But  whenever  the  May-bells  clash  and  chime, 
Then  hey  !  — for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme  ! 


262 


O  NAV1S." 


"O    NAVIS." 

C  HIP,  to  the  roadstead  rolled, 

What  dost  thou  ? — O,  once  more 

Regain  the  port.     Behold  ! 
Thy  sides  are  bare  of  oar, 
Thy  tall  mast  wounded  sore 

Of  Africus,  and  see, 

What  shall  thy  spars  restore  1  — 

Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea  1 


What  cable  now  will  hold 
When  all  drag  out  from  shore  I 

What  god  canst  thou,  too  bold, 
In  time  of  need  implore  1 
Look  !  for  thy  sails  flap  o'er, 

Thy  stiff  shrouds  part  and  flee, 
Fast  —  fast  thy  seams  outpour, 

Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea  1 

What  though  thy  ribs  of  old 
The  pines  of  Pontus  bore  ! 

Not  now  to  stern  of  gold 
Men  trust,  or  painted  prore  ! 
203 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

Thou,  or  thou  count'stit  store 
A  toy  of  winds  to  be, 

Shun  thou  the  Cyclads'  roar,  — 
Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea  1 

ENVOY. 
SHIP  OF  THE  STATE,  before 

A  care,  and  now  to  me 
A  hope  in  my  heart's  core,  — 

Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea  1 


THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH. 

THE   DANCE   OF    DEATH. 
(AFTER  HOLBEIN.) 

"  Contra  vim  MORTIS 

Non  est  medicamen  in  hortis" 

TT  E  is  the  despots'  Despot.     All  must  bide, 
Later  or  soon,  the  message  of  his  might 
Princes  and  potentates  their  heads  must  hide, 
Touched  by  the  awful  sigil  of  his  right ; 
Beside  the  Kaiser  he  at  eve  doth  wait 
And  pours  a  potion  in  his  cup  of  state  ; 
The  stately  Queen  his  bidding  must  obey ; 
No  keen-eyed  Cardinal  shall  him  affray  ; 
And  to  the  Dame  that  wantoneth  he  saith  — 
"  Let  be,  Sweet-heart,  to  junket  and  to  play." 
There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 


The  lusty  Lord,  rejoicing  in  his  pride, 
He  draweth  down  ;  before  the  armed  Knight 
With  jingling  bridle-rein  he  still  doth  ride ; 
He  crosseth  the  strong  Captain  in  the  fight ; 
The  Burgher  grave  he  beckons  from  debate  ; 
Ke  hales  the  Abbot  by  his  shaven  pate, 
265 


ESS  A  YS  IN   OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

Nor  for  the  Abbess'  wailing  will  delay  ; 
No  bawling  Mendicant  shall  say  him  nay; 
E'en  to  the  pyx  the  Priest  he  followeth, 
Nor  can  the  Leech  his  chilling  finger  stay  . 
There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 


All  things  must  bow  to  him.     And  woe  betide 
The  Wine-bibber,  —  the  Roisterer  by  night  ; 
Him  the  feast-master,  many  bouts  defied, 
Him  'twixt  the  pledging  and  the  cup  shall  smite  ; 
Woe  to  the  Lender  at  usurious  rate, 
The  hard  Rich  Man,  the  hireling  Advocate  ; 
Woe  to  the  Judge  that  selleth  right  for  pay ; 
Woe  to  the  Thief  that  like  a  beast  of  prey 
With  creeping  tread  the  traveller  harryeth  :  — 
These,  in  their  sin,  the  sudden  sword  shall  slay  .  . 
There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 

He  hath  no  pity,  —  nor  will  be  denied. 
When  the  low  hearth  is  garnished  and  bright, 
Grimly  he  flingeth  the  dim  portal  wide, 
And  steals  the  Infant  in  the  Mother's  sight ; 
He  hath  no  pity  for  the  scorned  of  fate  :  — 
He  spares  not  Lazarus  lying  at  the  gate, 
Nay,  nor  the  Blind  that  stumbleth  as  he  may; 
Nay,  the  tired  Ploughman,  —  at  the  sinking  ray,  — 
266 


THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH. 

In  the  last  furrow,  —  feels  an  icy  breath, 

And  knows  a  hand  hath  turned  the  team  astray 

There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 

He  hath  no  pity.     For  the  new-made  Bride, 
Blithe  with  the  promise  of  her  life's  delight, 
That  wanders  gladly  by  her  Husband's  side, 
He  with  the  clatter  of  his  drum  doth  fright ; 
He  scares  the  Virgin  at  the  convent  grate ; 
The  Maid  half-won,  the  Lover  passionate  ; 
He  hath  no  grace  for  weakness  and  decay  : 
The  tender  Wife,  the  Widow  bent  and  gray, 
The  feeble  Sire  whose  footstep  faltereth, — 
All  these  he  leadeth  by  the  lonely  way  .  . 
There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 


ENVOY. 

YOUTH,  for  whose  ear  and  monishing  of  late, 
I  sang  of  Prodigals  and  lost  estate, 
Have  thou  thy  joy  of  living  and  be  gay  ; 
But  know  not  less  that  there  must  come  a  day,  — 
Aye,  and  perchance  e'en  now  it  hasteneth,  — 
When  thine  own  heart  shall  speak  to  thee  and 

say,  — 
There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 


267 


When  Finis  comes,  the  BOOK  we  close, 

And  somewhat  sadly,  Fancy  goes, 

With  backward  step,  from  stage  to  stage 
Of  that  accomplished  pilgrimage  .  . . 

The  thorn  lies  thicker  than  tfie  rose  ! 

There  is  so  much  that  no  one  knows,  — 
So  much  un-reached  that  none  suppose  ; 

What  flaws  I  what  faults  I  —  on  every  page, 
When  Finis  comes. 

Still,  —  they  must  pass  !    The  swift  Tide  flows. 

Though  not  for  all  the  laurel  grows, 
Perchance,  in  this  be-slandered  age, 
The  worker,  mainly,  wins  his  wage  ;  — 

And  Time  will  sweep  both  friends  and  foes 
When  FINIS  comes  ! 


268 


NOTES. 


269 


NOTES. 


"  Ensign  (of  BRAGG'S)  made  a  terrible  clangour."  —  PAGE  23. 

DESPITE  its  suspicious  appropriateness  in  this  case, 
"  Bragg's  "  regiment  of  Foot-Guards  really  existed ; 
and  was  ordered  to  Flanders  in  April,  1742.     (See  Gentle- 
man's Magazine,  1742,  i.  217.) 

"  PORTO-BELLO  at  last  -was  ta'en"  —  PAGE  24. 

Porto  Bello  was  taken  in  November,  1739.  But  Vice- 
Admiral  Vernon's  despatches  did  not  reach  England  until 
the  following  March.  (See  Gentleman's  Magazine,  1740,  i. 
I2<\,etseq.) 

"  In  the  fresh  contours  of  his '  Milkmaid's  'face."  —  PAGE  28 

See  the  Enraged  Musician,  an  engraving  of  which  was 
published  in  November  of  the  following  year  (1741).  To 
annotate  this  Ballad  more  fully  would  be  easy ;  but  the 
reader  will  perhaps  take  the  details  for  granted.  In  answer 
to  some  inquiries,  it  may,  however,  be  stated  that  there  is 
no  foundation  in  fact  for  the  story. 

"  An  Incident  in  the  Life  of  Francois  Boucher." —  PAGE  37. 

See  Boucher,  by  Arsene  Houssaye,  Galerie  du  XVIII* 
Sihle  (Cinquieme  Serie),  and  Charles  Blanc,  Histoire  des 
Peintres  de  toutes  les  Ecoles. 


"  The  scene,  a  wood"  —  PAGE  37. 

The  picture  referred  to  is  Le  Panier  MystMeux  by  F. 
Boucher;  engraved  by  R.  Gaillard. 

271 


NOTES. 

"  And  far  afield  were  sun-baked  savage  creatutes."  —  PAGE  38. 
See  Les  Caracteres  de  LA  BRUYERE,  De  rhomme. 

"Whose  greatest  grace  was  jupes  a.  \a.  Camargo." —  PAGE  39. 

"  Cetait  le  beau  temps  ou  Camarro  trouvait  ses  jupes  trap 
longues  pour  danser  la  gargouillade."  —  ARSENE  HOUSSAYE. 

"  The  grass  he  called  '  too  green?  "  —  PAGE  39. 

"  //  trouvait  la  nature  trop  verte  et  mal  eclairee.  Et  son 
ami  Lancret,  le  peintre  des  salons  &  la  mode,  lui  repondait : 
* '  Je  suis  de  votre  sentiment,  la  nature  manque  fharmonie  et 
de  seduction:  "  —CHARLES  BLANC. 

" Nay,  —  'twas  a  song  <T/'SAINTE-AULAIRE."  —  PAGE  54. 

It  is  but  just  to  the  octogenarian  Marquis,  whom  the 
Duchess  of  Maine  surnamed  her  "  vieux  berger,"  to  say  that 
he  is  guiltless  of  the  song  here  ascribed  to  him.  For  it,  and 
the  similar  pieces  in  these  Proverbs,  the  author  is  alone  re- 
sponsible. In  the  Secrets  of  the  Heart,  however,  he  has, 
without  attempting  to  revive  the  persons,  borrowed  the 
names  of  the  charming  heroines  of  A  quoi  revent  les  Jeunes 
Ftlles. 

"  Some  moneyed  mourner's  '  love  or  pride' "  —  PAGE  165. 

"  Thus  much  alone  we  know  —  Metella  died, 
The  wealthiest  Roman's  wife  ;  Behold  his  love  or  pride  ! " 
Childe  Harold,  iv.  103. 

"  A  bolder  rider  than  Bellerophon"  —  PAGE  191. 

"  Eques  ipso  melior  Bellerophonte." — HOR.  iii.  12. 
272 


ftQTES. 

"  The  Thefts  of  Mercury  "  —  PAGE  191. 
"  Te,  boves  olim  nisi  reddidisses 
Per  dolum  amotas,  puerum  minaci 
Voce  dum  terret,  viduus  pharetra 

Risit  Apollo."—  HOR.  i.  10. 

"  They  are  a  school  to  win."  —  PAGE  217. 
In  view  of  the  prolonged  popularity  which  has  attended 
the  use  of  these  old  French  forms  in  England  and  America, 
the  following  dates  may  here  be  preserved.  Some  of  the 
Triolets  at  p.  219  appeared  in  the  Graphic  tor  May  23,  1874; 
the  Rondeau  at  p.  225  and  the  Ballade  at  p.  247  in  Evening 
Hours  for  May  1876 ;  the  Villanelle  at  p.  239  in  Proverbs  in 
Porcelain,  May  1877  ;  the  Chant  Royal  at  p.  265  in  the  Ar- 
chitect for  July  14, 1877  ;  and  the  Ballade  cl,  double  refrain  at 
p.  261  in  Belgravia  for  January  1878. 

"  PERSICOS  ODI."  —  PAGE  222. 

The  following  "  Pocket  Version  ''  \v;is  appended  to  this, 
when  it  first  appeared  in  the  second  edition  of  Proverbs  in 
Porcelain,  1878  :  — 

"Davus,  I  detest 

Persian  decoration ; 
Roses  and  the  rest, 
Davus,  I  detest. 
Simple  myrtle  best 

Suits  our  modest  station ;  — 
Davus,  I  detest 

Persian  decoration." 

"ON  LONDON  STONES."  —  PAGE  225. 
Lope  de  Vega  and  Hurtado  de  Mendoza  wrote  sonnets 
on  Sonnet-making;  Voiture  imitated  them  as  regirds  the 
Rondeau.     Here  is  a  paraphrase  of  Voiture :  — 
VOL.  i.  — 18  273 


NOTES. 

You  bid  me  try,  BLUE-EYES,  to  write 
A  Rondeau.     What !  —  forthwith  ?  —  to-night  ? 
Reflect.     Some  skill  I  have,  'tis  true  ;  — 
But  thirteen  lines  !  —  and  rhymed  on  two ! 
"  Refrain,"  as  well.     Ah,  hapless  plight  I 

Still,  there  are  five  lines,  —  ranged  aright. 
These  Gallic  bonds,  I  feared,  would  fright 
My  easy  Muse.    They  did,  till  you  — 
You  bid  me  try ! 

That  makes  them  eight.     The  port 's  in  sight ;  - 
'Tis  all  because  your  eyes  are  bright ! 
Now  just  a  pair  to  end  in  "  oo,"  — 
When  maids  command,  what  can't  we  do  1 
Behold  !  —  the  RONDEAU,  tasteful,  light, 
You  bid  me  try  I 


274 


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